Luke Stone 04 - Oppose Any Foe

by Jack Mars

  She nodded. “You definitely shot him. There was blood all over the driver’s seat, and spatters of blood led away from the truck. The FBI lab took DNA from the blood, and has begun searching it against databases throughout the United States and Europe, with no matches thus far. We’ve also sent DNA samples to the Pakistani, Turkish, Saudi Arabian, and Egyptian intelligence services, but if we’ll ever get a response, or if we’ll believe the response we get, is anybody’s guess.”

  “What about emergency rooms?” Luke said.

  “Nine men received treatment for gunshot wounds in DC area hospitals last night, all of whom had accounts of their injuries that were corroborated by eyewitnesses. If your driver was treated for his wounds, it wasn’t in a Metro hospital.”

  “Other areas?” Luke said.

  “Baltimore, Philadelphia, Richmond, Norfolk Virginia, and Wilmington, Delaware. It’s all the same story. No unexplained gunshot wounds walked in the door last night.”

  Luke was reasonably impressed. She was young, but she was good at tracking down details. She had taken this about as far as could be expected before reaching a dead end. Of course, Trudy Wellington would have checked hospitals as far away as the New York metro region and Boston, and probably would have sent agents to interview DC area doctors who had lost their licenses and were treating criminal gangs at under-the-radar trauma clinics, but Luke wasn’t sure that was a fair comparison. Trudy was thirty years old and had been with the FBI eight years—Mika was just starting.

  “So we’ve got a corpse who might have been a Tunisian hitman, and we’ve got a truck that disappeared, then reappeared, and belongs to no one. We’ve got a getaway driver who was shot, and also disappeared. I’m willing to guess that this hit was in some way related to my conversation with Don. It’s theoretically true that some terror group or another might want to murder me for revenge, but it just doesn’t happen. People don’t try to kill me that often—especially not while I’m out minding my own business.”

  “Is that what you were doing?” Swann said.

  Luke looked at him.

  Swann shrugged. “I know where the shootout happened. You were two blocks from Trudy’s apartment. I’d hardly call that minding your own business. Either they followed you there, or they were already there, watching her place. Considering everything that’s happened with Trudy and with Don—”

  “All of which would confirm my point, wouldn’t it? That it’s related in some way to my conversation with Don?”

  “I guess. Is this case all you talked about with him?”

  Luke shook his head. “No.”

  “Care to elaborate?” Ed Newsam said.

  Luke grunted. “Okay. Sure. Don and I talked at length about an exercise program he’s developing. How to stay fit and strong while living in a seven-by-twelve-foot box. He wants to call it Prison Power. I wish I was joking.”

  He looked at Mika again. She had flushed crimson. The location of the shootout was something she had apparently known, but was reluctant to bring up. Or maybe the tension between team members embarrassed her. It didn’t matter—she’d get over it, or she wouldn’t.

  “Let’s move on, shall we?” Luke said. “Give us what else you’ve got.”

  He drifted a bit as Mika launched into the details of the Cold War nukes stored in Belgium, about the peace activists who had breached security there, and about the Brussels-based terrorist networks likely being harbored in the Islamic enclave of Molenbeek. He had gotten it all at the White House briefing, but Swann and Newsam hadn’t, and it was important they hear it.

  When it was over, Luke asked what to him was the million-dollar question:

  “So what does your gut say?” he said.

  Mika seemed confused. “My gut?”

  He nodded. “Sure. You’ve got all this data, and I imagine you’ve digested it to some extent. What thoughts do you have? Are the nukes really in danger, or is something else happening? Will the attack come from Molenbeek? Is there any merit to this at all?”

  Mika gave him a blank stare. This was where Trudy normally earned her keep—really, any smart person with proficiency in government databases and slicing through red tape could track down the data. The gold was in deciding what the data meant.

  These were the moments when Trudy would bring in an idea straight from left field, or work backwards from a hypothesis that no one else had even considered. She would make bold, half-crazy assertions that couldn’t be true—and then demonstrate step-by-step why they were not only plausible, but in fact the most likely possibility.

  Mika slowly shook her head, clearly disappointed she was letting them down.

  “I have no idea,” she said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  9:25 p.m.

  The White House Residence

  Washington, DC

  “I need you guys, that’s all I’m saying. I can’t do this all by myself. I can’t be this person, and also be alone. I don’t have the strength.”

  Susan pressed her phone to her ear as she talked. She had changed into a pair of old blue jeans, faded and ripped and sprung in all the right spots. She wore a hooded sweatshirt pulled over a wife-beater T-shirt she’d had since forever. She was wearing flip-flops and socks at the same time. If the photographers could only see her now. But she was stuck in this big scary house for the night, so she might as well be comfortable.

  She sat alone at the alcove table in the family kitchen, taking her dinner. It was a room she had been in only a handful of times when Thomas Hayes was President. She reminded herself, for the umpteenth time, that it was not the same place. The entire Residence had been blown to smithereens—she remembered a giant chunk of it flying into the sky while she was escaping by helicopter.

  It was a different kitchen—it just looked the same. Maybe it was a little roomier, brighter, with a more efficient use of space. But still, you’d never notice.

  “I know that, sweetheart,” Pierre was saying. “I want to be there for you. I hate it that I’m not. But I want to protect the girls. I want them to grow up safe from all this… insanity.”

  “I know,” Susan said. “I know it. I want that for them, too. More than anything.”

  She took a bite of the chicken salad the chef had made at her request. She just wanted something light and simple—chicken salad, grapes, some crusty bread, and a little white wine—after a long, ridiculous day. But of course the chef had outdone himself. It was the best chicken salad she’d tasted in probably the past ten years—the tiniest bit tart, with raisins and walnut pieces embedded in it.

  God, that was good.

  “They’re happy here,” Pierre said. “They’re away from all those pressures, all that scrutiny. They’re free to be normal kids.”

  Susan smiled and shook her head. Pierre had a slightly skewed idea of what it meant to be normal. She loved her beautiful twin daughters more than anything, but these were two girls who bounced between an oceanfront mansion in Malibu, a thirty-million-dollar, ten-bedroom penthouse apartment in San Francisco, and a country house on a private island northwest of Seattle. They traveled everywhere in armored limousines and Secret Service jets, and their various teachers, tutors, and best friends of the moment traveled with them. The pop star Adrianna had played a thirty-minute set at their birthday party in September. They weren’t normal kids.

  “And you?” Susan said.

  “I’m happier here, too. And I’m safer. You know I’m not an extrovert like you are.” His voice took on a hard edge. “It just doesn’t appeal to me to have all these TV talking heads dissecting my private life for the world to see. It doesn’t appeal to me to have every angry, homophobic, xenophobic radio talk show host in America taking me down a peg for laughs. It’s not fair, I didn’t ask for it…”

  “Pierre,” she said.

  “… and it’s humiliating, Susan.”

  “I know it is. It’s my private life, too.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said.

  She was about to spe
ak, but he rushed ahead of her. “It’s not your life. You’re the President of the United States. I’m the overly sensitive, reclusive, gay computer geek who happened to get lucky during the dotcom era—that’s my narrative now. Meanwhile, you get to be the smart, sexy leader of the free world. You’re like Tomb Raider and Golda Meir wrapped in a tortilla. Every girl in America, from third grade through high school, wants to be you when they grow up.

  “You know what TMZ is talking about this evening? The actor Tommy Zales, fifteen years your junior, was at the White House dedication today—he was photographed chatting very closely with you. He was also at National Press Club dinner two weeks ago, sitting one table away from you. He’s a ladies’ man, and he’s a heartbreaker—what’s going on? Is he trying to bed the President?”

  Susan rolled her eyes. “Pierre, there’s nothing going on between me and Tommy Zales. I don’t even know him. I chatted closely with at least two hundred people today.”

  “That’s not the point, Susan. Every week, there’s a new interview with some disgruntled ex-employee of mine, talking about how secretive I am, how demanding I am, how I throw tantrums, and theorizing about what men at the company I might have had closeted relationships with—half of the people talking have never even met me. Do you know how many ex-employees I have? More than ten thousand. Are they going to put every single one of them on television?”

  There was a long pause before he spoke again.

  “Art asked me today if I was thinking about resigning.”

  Art Sayles was the chairman of Pierre’s board, and a major stockholder. That was a bad sign. Susan really did feel bad about all of this. It had been going on in the background for months, and she just hadn’t had time to focus on it or try to put a stop to it. The media was making Pierre into some kind of fall guy. Why?

  “Pierre, I’m so sorry. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him no! I built this company. The only way they’re taking me out is in an ambulance.”

  The wide double doors to the kitchen opened. A Secret Service man held the doors and Kat Lopez stepped into the room. Kat was still wearing her conservative blue suit from earlier today. She looked tired. Her brown hair was slightly askew.

  “Pierre, can you hold on?” Susan put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Kat, what are you still doing here? Go home.”

  “Susan, there’s been another coup attempt in Turkey. It started in the past half an hour. The power is knocked out across half the country, and we’ve lost touch with the Presidential Palace. There’s chaos in the streets. A massive crowd gathered in a public square in Istanbul, and the military has been firing on them—no one even knows which side the troops are on. Kurt Kimball is still here, and he’s assembling a skeleton crew of staff. He’s got an Army four-star from the Pentagon on the way, and Haley Lawrence says he can be back here in forty-five minutes.”

  “Who’s behind it?” Susan said.

  Kat shrugged.

  “Kurt thinks that it’s homegrown radical Islamists, possibly with an assist from outside actors. But the details are sketchy. At this point, no one knows if the Turkish government is going to last the night.”

  Kat paused. “If Turkey goes, we’re going to take a lot of criticism. The implications on the world stage are bad enough, but keep in mind we’ve also got the Congressional elections in two weeks. Our opponents are going to say we were sleeping while the—”

  Susan held up a hand, stopping her chief-of-staff in mid-sentence.

  “Pierre,” she said into the telephone. “I have to call you back.”

  “Susan, you can’t just hang up the telephone every time someone—”

  “Honey, I don’t have a choice right now,” Susan said.

  “What does that say about our relationship, or my place in your life? I can tell you that the implications don’t look good.”

  “I’m going to make it right,” she said. “We’re in a crisis at this moment, but we’ll get past it. And I am going to make it up to you, and the girls.”

  She felt it as she was saying it, and she wanted so badly for it to be true. But in her heart, she knew how far she was from making it happen.

  “Good night, Susan,” Pierre said. “Enjoy your meeting.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  October 21

  3:30 a.m. Eastern European Time (9:30 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

  Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  They had been digging this tunnel beneath the air force base for six months—it was the perfect infiltration method.

  Jamal marveled at the work that had been done. Twenty-four hours a day, shifts of men had been down here, four stories below the ground, working by hand. They had hammered away with pickaxes and shovels, tearing at the stone and packed earth, hauling the remains away in wheelbarrows, and bringing it to the surface using an elaborate pulley system.

  Finally, it was done.

  Jamal took it all in as he walked through the tunnel now with a group of thirty heavily-armed men, mujahideen prepared to sacrifice their lives. He was very tired—he had been working constantly for days and days, and strong Turkish coffee was the only thing keeping him moving. Even his excitement would otherwise not be enough—he felt as if he could fall asleep on his feet.

  The tunnel was jagged and narrow, with sharp edges and sudden turns. The walls and floor were wet with trickling water. A cave-in was not out of the question. Every fifty meters, a battery-operated flashlight hung suspended from the ceiling, casting a weak light in the darkness, and throwing strange, sinister shadows against the walls.

  As they grew closer to their destination, Jamal began to hear the rumble of heavy weaponry. It sounded like far away thunder. Right on cue, the fighting for the base had begun.

  Soon the light changed. Briefly, it got much darker, and the tunnel became narrower. The ceiling was lower. For a time, they were forced to walk nearly in a squat, while moving through pitch-darkness.

  Suddenly, the tunnel opened up. Jamal stepped through a narrow crack in the wall and came out into an area cordoned off behind a heavy canvas screen. He stepped past the screen into a thin corridor. It was dimly lit, but compared to the darkness of the tunnel, it felt like staring directly into the midday sun. It was a utility and power grid maintenance area below the base. The lights flickered overhead.

  A group of mujahideen were congregated here. They seemed uncertain, confused. The bombing was closer now, louder. Jamal grabbed the squad leader by the shoulder.

  “Move your men along the hall,” he barked. “Let’s go. There’s no time to waste.”

  They climbed an ironwork stairway several flights, then emerged into a wide hangar area. The ceiling was at least three stories above their heads. A half dozen men in the green and tan camouflage uniforms of the Turkish air force stood waiting. The oldest was a tall man with a slight paunch. Despite his gut, he stood ramrod straight. His hair was salt and pepper, and he had a thick mustache. He watched Jamal approach.

  “As salaam alaikum,” Jamal said as he shook the man’s hand. Peace be upon you.

  “Wa alailkum salaam,” the officer said. And upon you, peace.

  “Colonel, this is the night we have long prayed for.”

  The colonel nodded. “Yes, it is. We must hurry.”

  His eyes narrowed as the mujahideen began to appear behind Jamal. In the clear light, the holy warriors seemed as if from another race. They were wide-bodied and strong, with long, thick beards and curly hair. Their eyes were hard. They carried heavy submachine guns and grenade launchers. One man had a flamethrower.

  They wore ammunition belts looped over their shoulders, and suicide belts strapped around their waists. Their vest pockets were stuffed with grenades. These were fearless fighters, men who lived with death every day. They had relinquished the life of this world, surrendering it for the other life, in paradise.

  “Jamal?” the colonel said. “These are the men you’ve gathered?”

  �
��These men are the best of the best. God willing, they will create a diversion long enough for the trucks to escape.”

  Jamal didn’t say it, but he imagined they would create a much longer diversion than that. With thirty more men like these, they could practically overrun the base—the Turkish half of it, anyway.

  The colonel walked Jamal to an area on the far side of the hangar. The hangar door opened and four tractor trailers pulled in. They were followed by a large construction vehicle with a rear-mounted crane. That truck was a giant, a beast from the netherworld. It was the truck that would ram through the front gates.

  Jamal felt, rather than heard, a missile incoming. He almost forgot himself and flinched. The missile hit outside with a whistle and a heavy WHUMP.

  The ground under their feet trembled the slightest amount.

  A digital command module was embedded in the wall. The colonel said something to one of his men under his breath. The man went to the command module and flipped a switch, bringing it to life. A numeric keypad lit up, and the man entered a sequence of numbers. Behind them, a section of the floor slowly slid away, revealing a hidden bay.

  The man entered another code, and the squeal of hydraulics began. An ancient lift creaked toward the surface. It took several minutes for the lift to reach surface level. It continued until it was flush with the flooring that had slid aside—it was now as if the open bay had never been there.

  Jamal stared at the items on the lift. Around him, the men murmured excitedly among themselves.

  There were four thick iron racks in a line. On each long rack were mounted four small W84 nuclear warheads, very much like the replicas Jamal had seen the men working with in Brussels.

  Jamal’s breath caught in his throat. He had never been in the presence of a nuclear weapon—now he was standing in the same room with sixteen of them. Behind the W84 warheads were two B61 nuclear missiles, mounted side by side on wheeled bomb loaders. Jamal barely noticed them—he had no supersonic jet fighters, and he wasn’t going to have any. Those bombs were of no use to him.