by Mike Maden
“There he is,” the passenger said.
The garage doors were open. A windowless black-panel van stood far inside, to the right, leaving the rest of the expansive garage open. A bright yellow-and-red Chinook Charter logo decorated the van’s swinging back doors.
The sedan pulled up onto the spotless cement driveway and shut off its engine after parking directly behind the van. The two men climbed out. Sport coats, ties, leather shoes. The driver was heavyset with a dirty-blond mustache. The dark-haired passenger was taller and leaner and clean-shaven but with a heavy five o’clock shadow.
The door leading from the house into the garage opened. Norman Pike stepped into the garage in his stocking feet and put on a pair of slippers. He held a heavy ceramic coffee cup in one hand.
The two men entered the garage. The tall passenger scanned the space. Neat as a pin. No oil or dirt or even dust on the garage floor. Everything was perfectly organized and uniform in storage racks and metal cabinets. There was also a tall mechanic’s tool chest on wheels and a workbench with a vise.
“Mr. Pike?” the driver asked, reaching into his coat pocket.
“Yes?” Pike took a sip of coffee, his eyes focused on the driver’s hand.
“My name is Agent Barr.” He held up his wallet so that Pike could read it.
“FBI?”
“And this is Agent Fowler. We’re both from the Milwaukee office.”
“Nice to meet you fellas. What can I do for you?” Pike reached out and shook hands with both men. Fisherman’s hands, Barr noted. Strong and calloused.
Agent Fowler glanced around the garage. “Nice little shop you got here.”
“Helps me keep everything shipshape. I run my business out of my house.”
“A charter business?” Agent Barr said.
“Yeah. Out of Cheboygan.”
“I always wanted to do that,” Agent Fowler said. “Nothing beats a day on the lake, fishing.”
“I’m a lucky man, for sure.”
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” Agent Barr asked.
“Of course not. You want to come in? Just made a pot of coffee.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind. It was a long drive.”
“Follow me.” Pike headed for the door. He stopped at the threshold and removed his slippers, placing them neatly on a plastic pad. He turned around. “If you don’t mind—”
“Of course not,” Agent Barr said.
Pike went in as the two agents unlaced their shoes, leaning against the wall for stability. They exchanged silent, irritated glances. They set their shoes down neatly next to Pike’s.
Inside the door, they entered a long hallway, two doors on each side. One was slightly open. Two were shut. The fourth was secured with a heavy security bracket and a black-dialed combination lock. Fowler made a mental note. The engineered wood floors were as spotless as the garage. They eventually landed in a large open-area chef’s kitchen that led into a living room.
Pike set two steaming cups of coffee on the bar. “Please, have a seat.”
“I’ll stand if you don’t mind,” Fowler said. “Back’s killing me after that drive.”
“I’m surprised you came from Milwaukee. Isn’t there an FBI office in Detroit?”
“Yeah, but they’ve got their hands full right now, so we got the call.” Barr took a sip of coffee. “Man, that’s good.”
“Roast the beans myself. That’s the secret. You guys want anything to eat?” Pike raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Something to fortify the coffee?”
“No, thanks, this is great,” Barr said.
Pike leaned against the stove. “So, what can I do for you?”
Fowler reached into his coat pocket for a photo. Set it down on the counter. “We’re looking for this man. Daniel Brody.”
Pike picked up the photo. “Yeah. He was on my boat three days ago. Why?”
“He’s missing. We’ve been asked to check around. We got as far as Cheboygan and your charter but after that, his trail disappears.”
“Oh, God. That’s terrible. Super-nice guy.”
Fowler set his cup down. “You mind if I use your restroom?”
“Sure. It’s back down that hall, second door on your left.”
“Thanks.” Fowler headed that way.
“Did he tell you where he was headed next?” Barr asked.
Pike scratched his beard thoughtfully. “No, not that I recall. He said he was running through his bucket list. I assumed that meant he was sick or something. Was he?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“He said he always wanted to go fishing on the Great Lakes. We had a great time. Caught his limit, too.”
“Did he show you any identification?”
“Yeah. His driver’s license. California, I think.”
“His rental car never got turned in,” Barr said.
“Oh, boy. That’s not a good sign. Can’t you trace it with the GPS onboard?”
“It was disabled.”
Pike’s eyebrows raised. “Wow. I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“The last known position of the vehicle was ten miles north of here. The rental car company sent a man out to the location but didn’t find anything.”
“Huh. Sounds like your guy wanted to disappear.”
“Could be. We haven’t closed any doors at this juncture.”
Pike smiled. “Must be fascinating to do what you do.”
“It has its moments.” Barr took another sip of coffee. “Did Brody tell you he was an American citizen?”
“He was, wasn’t he?”
“Dual citizenship.”
“Really? He never said anything about that. Like, Canadian or something?”
“Israeli.”
“Oh. Well, he seemed American.”
“He grew up in Los Angeles. Did he tell you about his work?”
“No. We just talked about fishing, the basics. He said he didn’t really know anything about it. I even had to sell him a fishing license just so he could go out.”
“So you didn’t know he was a college professor?”
“No.”
“He didn’t talk to you about robotics? Drones? That sort of thing?” Barr asked.
Pike shook his head. “No. That would’ve been really interesting. I would’ve remembered something like that.”
“So how long have you been a charter captain?” Barr asked.
“Going on eight years now.”
“Business is good?”
“Yeah. It’s really good. Great, in fact.”
“I’m surprised you’re not out right now. Isn’t this high season?”
“Had a last-minute cancellation. Decided to use the time to catch up on my paperwork. The IRS is driving me nuts.” Pike caught himself. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind paying taxes. It’s the tax forms and Schedule Bs and all of that crap that kills me.”
Barr smiled at Pike’s discomfort. “I hear ya.”
“So you were in the service?” Pike asked.
“First Marines. Iraq.”
“You got the look.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“I was in Iraq for about a year, but not in uniform. Bad eyes. But I worked for a contractor. Tech support, for computers. An IED took out a couple of friends of mine, and that was all it took. I was out of there, man, let me tell you. Not worth the money, even though it was damn good money. It’s how I was able to buy my boat.”
“And tax free, too,” Barr said.
“The good ol’ days,” Pike said. “More coffee?”
“Sure. Thanks.” He handed Pike his cup. Where the hell was Fowler?
Pike refilled it. “So, this Brody guy. You’re looking for him because he�
�s in trouble, or he is the trouble?”
“He’s a missing person. That’s all I’m authorized to tell you.”
“Must be an important guy. Otherwise you would’ve sent the local PD.”
“He’s definitely a person of interest.” Barr checked his watch.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. I hope you find the guy.” A toilet flushed down the hallway.
“Me, too.” Barr handed Pike a business card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
Pike studied it. “I will, for sure.”
Fowler reappeared. “It’s getting late. We should get going. We’ve got a couple of stops we still need to hit.”
“Yeah, we should.” Barr turned to Pike. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Let me walk you out,” Pike said.
—
THE CRUNCH OF GRAVEL gave way to an asphalt hiss as the sedan’s tires pulled back onto the two-lane heading west for the I-75 north and Mackinac.
“What’d you see?” Barr asked.
“Not much. I looked around. I stopped at the shut door but there was no time to pick the combo lock. I listened but didn’t hear anything on the other side.”
“Probably nothing to worry about. Maybe it’s just a torture chamber with a dozen women drugged unconscious and chained to the walls.”
Fowler laughed. “He’s not the type. Trust me.”
“Should we grab a warrant, just in case? Check it out?”
“Based on what?”
“Probable cause.”
“What probable cause? A locked door?”
“You don’t think he’s hiding anything?”
“I’m guessing it’s just storage. Rods and reels. Those things can get pricey.”
Barr sighed through his nose. “You’re probably right. He doesn’t strike me as anything but what he seems to be, a charter boat captain. I say we hold off on a warrant. Last thing we need is another federal judge up our poop chutes.” The car rose and fell with the undulating road. “So where the heck should we look for Brody next?”
Fowler loosened his tie. “I know a good steak house in Mackinac. Maybe he’s hiding out there.”
“Sounds like a winner.”
Barr shifted uncomfortably. “Pull over at the next gas station, will ya? I never did get a chance to bleed the lizard.”
38
WASHINGTON, D.C.
President Lane took his customary seat at the far end of the Situation Room table, his mind clearly occupied. The next hour in this room would determine the fate of the nation. Pearce was on his right.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Gordon Onstot, sat at the other end of the long table opposite President Lane. The four-star air force general’s barrel chest was loaded with hard-earned combat medals, ribbons, and badges. Mike Pia, the director of national intelligence, sat to the chairman’s right. Chandler, Grafton, Eaton, Peguero, Abbott, and Gibson sat in the middle.
“We need to talk about goals and means,” Lane began. “I want to know from each of you what you would do if you were sitting in my chair. Don’t try and second-guess me. Just give me your best thoughts in a few sentences. We’ll start with goals. Gordon, let’s hear you first.”
The JCS chairman cleared his throat. “We need a limited and definable goal that can be achieved rapidly and that addresses the threat at hand. We should mount an immediate air and ground assault on the ISIS Caliphate in Syria and Iraq and its capital city, Raqqa. We should kill or capture all enemy forces, and kill or capture Caliph al-Mahdi and his ruling council as quickly as possible to eliminate the current threat.”
“Doable?” Lane asked.
“No question. A matter of weeks if sufficient force is deployed quickly enough. Maybe less.”
“The CliffsNotes version of the Powell Doctrine,” Garza said.
The press secretary nodded. “A definable objective. I can sell that.”
“The chairman’s right,” Chandler said. “Hit them hard and win.”
“Objections?” Lane asked. He glanced around the room. Pearce frowned. “Troy?”
“‘Hit them hard and win’ is great. But the minute we leave, they’ll be back and we’ll have to occupy the territory indefinitely, just like South Korea, where we still have troops more than fifty years after that conflict ended.”
“I take it you have a different goal?” Lane asked.
“Take out al-Mahdi and his troops and you still haven’t killed ISIS—they’re operating throughout the Middle East, and they have affiliates all over the planet. The only way to truly win a war is to end it, and the only way to end it with ISIS and its affiliates is to hunt every last one of them down and kill them wherever we find them.”
The attorney general scowled. “Aren’t you exaggerating the problem? Only a small percentage of Muslims are fanatics.”
“There are one-point-six billion Muslims in the world,” Pia said. “If just ten percent of them are fanatics, that means we’re in a war with one hundred sixty million people. If it’s just one percent, we’re still talking about sixteen million people devoted to destroying us by any means possible.”
“That’s a long war, Troy,” Lane said. “A global war. A total war.”
“We’re already in a long war,” Pearce said. “They launched their campaign against the West in the seventh century. But half a war like General Onstot is proposing promises an even longer one—and denies us victory for the effort. By fighting a limited war against ISIS, we telegraph to our enemies that we’re not totally committed to winning. That gives them incentive to wait us out. They will, and we’ll quit. We always do.”
“You’re just a bag of sunshine and rainbows, aren’t you?” Chandler said.
“Troy’s right,” Grafton said. Chandler scowled at her. She didn’t care. It was time for her to make her move.
“How so, Vicki?” Lane said.
“Even if we could defeat ISIS by only destroying the Caliphate, all we’ve done is cleared the field for al-Qaeda to reemerge, or for some other jihadi organization to rise up and take its place. Radical Islam is a hydra with a million heads. Like Troy said, either we make a total military commitment to destroy all of our jihadi enemies over a long war, or we don’t make that total commitment, and fight an even longer war and lose to them.”
“Sounds like genocide,” Peguero said. “Like a war against Islam itself. That’s not an American idea. That’s not who we are.” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not who you are, Mr. President.”
“You’re right,” Pearce said, looking a Peguero. “Genocide literally means the killing of a type of person. In World War Two we killed fascists. Millions of them. We killed their soldiers in the field and burned their cities to the ground and their civilian populations with them. It was the only way to defeat them. Do you have a problem with us winning World War Two and defeating the fascists?”
“That’s a ridiculous question,” Peguero said. “There’s no comparison.”
“I agree,” Pearce said. “Germany and Japan were nation-states. ISIS is not, despite the Caliphate. We could invade Germany and Japan and Italy and occupy them and force their leaders to sign treaties that ended the war. There is no one country to invade and occupy, no one person in authority to deal with, no treaty to be signed to end the war with radical Islam. That means we must kill them all, wherever we find them, if we ever want it to end.”
“Religion can’t be defeated with guns and violence,” Peguero said. “We need to win the argument against radical Islam by showing the world we are morally superior. Islam is a religion of peace. The fanatical killers aren’t really Muslim at all.”
Garza threw up his hands. “Are you nuts? Who are you to say that Muslims who claim to be Muslims aren’t really Muslim? ISIS and AQ and Boko Haram and all of the other murdering bastards all swear by the Kor
an and by Allah and by Muhammad, His Prophet. Only smug, self-righteous Western elites think those people aren’t really who they say they are.”
“All I know is that if you wage war against the whole religion, you’ll only increase the number of zealots who want to kill us,” Peguero said. “Bush understood that. So has every other president since him—at least until now.”
“I agree with you,” Pearce said.
Eyebrows raised around the room, including Peguero’s. “I’m confused.”
“You can’t destroy religion with guns. Religion, like ideology, is software. It’s invisible. It’s an idea. So you’re right, we can’t fight radical Islam with guns.” Pearce tapped his skull with his finger. “But we can wreck the hardware that runs it. We put bullet to bone. Turn brain pans into pink mist. That’s exactly how Islam spread, isn’t it? Muhammad and his successors spread their software by killing Christians and Jews in the wars of Muslim expansion that only ended when the West stopped them by force of arms at places like Tours, Malta, and Vienna.”
“So we have to become barbarians in order to defeat the barbarians?”
“In theory, yes. But I know that we don’t have the guts to wage that kind of war. I’m not even sure it’s the morally right thing to do. But half a war and half the effort will only make things twice as bad in the long run. Wage total war or don’t wage it at all is my point.”
“How can we not wage war against our sworn enemies?” Chandler asked.
“Containment,” Pia said.
“What do you mean exactly?” Lane asked.
“Containment is the Cold War strategy that defeated the Soviet empire without firing a shot in a hot war. It forced the Soviets to live with the internal contradictions of their social and economic system and, of course, it collapsed upon itself.”
“That took over fifty years to accomplish,” Chandler said.
Pia shrugged. “Only because our two-faced European allies propped them up for decades for profit while we spent the money to defend NATO. Otherwise the Soviet Union would have fallen thirty years earlier.”
