Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  Tsujihara shook his head. “No, there is not.” He took a sip of his tea. “But I do have a picture.”

  Connor raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  The captain pulled a cell phone from his breast pocket. “I like to keep personal records.” He swiped a finger across the screen and tapped through the apps. “It was in particularly good shape, all things considered.”

  Tsujihara handed the phone to Connor. The picture on the screen was dark, but the ship’s floodlights illuminated the hanging wreckage well enough. It was the remains of an A4-E Skyhawk, hanging from several straps, suspended above the salvage ship’s deck. The wings had indeed been ripped off, and the tail section was missing. The angle suggested Tsujihara had been standing at the bridge’s window, looking down at the operation from above. The underside of the wrecked plane was hidden in shadow.

  And there was something else.

  “Total search time for the project was just over two weeks,” Tsujihara said. “A complete waste.”

  Connor touched the screen, swiping his fingers to enlarge the image. At the very edge of the picture, he could see the outline of another ship, just barely visible at the outer limits of the light provided by the salvage ship’s lamps. Three letters appear from the darkness.

  IFT.

  “Why a waste?” Tanaka asked.

  “Because the asshole hasn’t paid us,” Nakamura said.

  Connor remembered the email they’d downloaded.

  “Nakamura,” Tsujihara snapped.

  The first officer lowered his head, stepping back. “Apologies.”

  “Have nobody disturb us.” Tsujihara motioned his first mate to the cabin door, his stern expression brooking no argument.

  Nakamura gave the captain a sharp nod. “Sir.”

  Tsujihara took another sip as Nakamura shut the door behind him, leaving the captain and the two agents alone on the bridge.

  “My apologies,” the captain said. “Nakamura is capable, but young. He hasn’t yet gained control over his emotions, which is why he is still a first officer. I should have known something was wrong the moment I laid eyes on Mr. Hakimi.”

  Connor lifted his chin. Hakimi had used his real name? That suggested the Arab was not concerned about fading into the shadows after he was done with whatever he was planning. Which in turn meant one of two things. Either Mohammad Hakimi wanted the world to know what he’d done… or he wasn’t planning on being around after it happened.

  Both possibilities sent large red flags up Connor’s flagpole.

  He handed the phone back to the captain. “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m not a racist, first of all,” the captain said quickly, as if that had been the first thing to go through both men’s minds. “I don’t have issues with Muslims. In my country we have seen an increase in immigrants from the Middle East, so they’re common enough, and most simply want to go on with their lives. But this man… this man had some real hate behind his eyes. I knew as soon as we pulled that wreck from the water that we had made a mistake. But who am I to say? We have contracts and agreements, and we follow orders from the main office.”

  Connor’s phone beeped, and he glanced at it. It was a response from the Utah Data Center. He stepped away from the captain. “One second please.”

  He swiped open the message.

  * * *

  TO: Connor Sloane, Analyst - CIA

  SUBJ: UDC Query Response – Broken Arrow @ 152 km SE of Kikaijima Island

  * * *

  Per your request, I conducted a search of the Central Records System and found no evidence of any US assets being lost in that vicinity. However, a search of the National Archives yielded some results that you may find interesting.

  * * *

  In December of 1965, a military asset was lost off the USS Ticonderoga at 27°33.2’N, 131°19.3E, which is within a five-mile radius of your stated query. It resulted in the loss of an A4-E Skyhawk attack aircraft carrying a B43 nuclear payload, with an estimated explosive yield of one megaton. I’ve attached details regarding the payload.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  * * *

  Kaitlyn Shaw

  Archives Technician (3A)

  * * *

  With his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, Connor walked back over to the captain. “You said you’d made a mistake?”

  “Yes,” Tsujihara answered. “It wasn’t the plane he was after.” He swiped to another picture, then turned it so Connor and Tanaka could see. The image was angled up and the belly of the plane was exposed. Still mounted securely in its bomb rack was a long, coral-encrusted cylindrical object. “I think they were after this.”

  Connor ignored the look that Tanaka was giving him, and even though he maintained a neutral expression, inside he was freaking out.

  That coral-encrusted mess looked exactly like the pictures he’d just received from the UDC of the B43 air-dropped nuclear bomb.

  And it didn’t look damaged at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Annie took another bite of her bologna sandwich as she watched the next room’s occupants on a hidden video camera. The last few days had been nothing but sitting around, watching her target sleep with a seemingly unending string of prostitutes. His stamina was incredible, like a teenager who’d just figured out what his dick was for, but enough was enough. How many times did a man need to get his rocks off before he actually got down to real business?

  Not to mention the fact that he’d selected the worst hotel in all of DC. There were hundreds of better choices, yet he’d had to pick this rundown, seedy, back-alley motel on the outskirts of the capital. And the way he was going through money on these whores, clearly he could have afforded a four-star in a better part of town. And then she could’ve ordered room service on the Outfit’s dime.

  She washed down a bite of her sandwich with a swig of water as yet another prostitute collected her things and began her long walk of shame out of the hotel. This one was tall, with an athletic build, long blond hair, and overly large breasts. The working girls that had visited Wagner’s room over the last few days had all been similar in appearance.

  “Where in the hell did he find so many identical whores?” Annie wondered aloud.

  “This is only half the rate,” the girl said, holding up a handful of twenty-dollar bills.

  Annie turned the volume up slightly and leaned forward. This was something new.

  Wagner sat on the bed, his back against the headboard. He waved a dismissive hand through the air. “You’re not worth full rate. And you were late. I take bonus off for that.”

  The girl put her hands on her hips. “The hell you say. Bonus? Look, man, I don’t know who the hell you think you are or how they do things over in Euro-wherever-the-hell you’re from, but here in America, we agree on the rate and then you pay it.”

  “You were not up to standard. That is what you get.”

  The girl stood by the door for a long minute, red-faced. She put her leg out and leaned to the side, the stance all women took when they were getting ready to make a point. She pointed at him, still holding the bills. “You’re messed up in the head.”

  “Bah,” Wagner said, waving her away. “Get out.”

  “You’re gonna hear from Benny, you better believe that. You screwed up, big-time.”

  “I’m terrified. Now leave!”

  The girl paused, then with an indignant huff she collected her purse and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

  “Stupid bitch,” Wagner said, throwing an empty cigarette pack at the back of the door.

  “Now, that wasn’t very nice, Frederick,” Annie said, taking another bite of her sandwich. “You should really treat whores with more respect than that.”

  She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. Men were all the same. Horny little momma’s boys that couldn’t think with anything but their dick. Of course, that weakness had often helped her get the job done.

  The little red lig
ht on Annie’s computer screen flashed, indicating her target was getting a phone call. Probably the next in a line of whores.

  “Damn, that was fast,” Annie said, tapping the record button. The Outfit’s computer could pick up, record, and trace almost any phone system on the face of the Earth. And Annie’s computer was connected to the Outfit’s encrypted network, enabling her to run the voices it recorded through the main audio reference library, looking for matches.

  She watched as Wagner grabbed his phone off the bedside table and answered in German. “Hello.”

  Annie’s computer automatically translated and transcribed the conversation, allowing her to refer back to it immediately if she needed to. Linguistics had never been her strong suit—they had people back at the Bunker that could take care of that—so she contented herself with reading the translation on her screen.

  “Are you here?”

  The voice on the other end of the line was female, with an accent that was hard to place, other than it was likely European. The computer pinged the main server for voice analysis and identification.

  “I’ve been here for two days already,” Wagner said. “I’m running out of whores to screw.”

  “We didn’t send you there to screw whores,” the woman said. “You better not cause any issues with the locals. We don’t need that kind of attention.”

  “They’re whores,” Wagner said. “No one pays attention to them anyway.”

  “Eh, you’d be surprised what American whores are capable of,” Annie muttered aloud.

  “Don’t draw attention to yourself like last time,” the woman said, and there was no mistaking her tone. Clearly Wagner’s vices had gotten him in trouble before. “Our first delivery is today. Then we will be able to open the restaurant.”

  “And I’ll be able to leave this hellhole? This country has no idea what hospitality is.”

  “You are not there for your comfort,” the woman said. “Have you forgotten already?”

  “No. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Good. Once the delivery is made, we should be able to serve within a day or two.”

  “And how many are we serving?” Wagner asked.

  “Our initial count is ten, but that could change depending on a number of factors. I want you to verify that we have the vehicles ready and they’re packed and loaded properly.”

  Wagner kicked off the sheets. “You want me to go to Baltimore?”

  The woman gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes, Frederick, I want you to go to Baltimore. That is your entire job. Did you think you were going on a goddamn vacation?”

  “It just seems like a job better suited to Johann or Sebastian.”

  “Oh? Would you like me to tell Müller that you’re not satisfied with your assignment?”

  Wagner immediately sat up in bed, his casual demeanor replaced by a serious, no-nonsense frown. “No. That will not be necessary. I’ll go to Baltimore. I’ll watch them load the goddamn olive oil.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the woman said. “Now, enough whores. Get focused. This operation is the most important mission you’ve ever had in your life. In all our lives. Don’t screw it up. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Wagner nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  The call ended, and Annie’s computer began processing the conversation, extracting keywords and possible code phrases, analyzing and comparing the data to previous recordings and conversations stored somewhere up in the cloud.

  The main server told Annie the woman’s voice had not been previously recorded and there was no information on who she was. It did, however, trace the originating phone call back to… no, that made no sense. Somewhere in the vicinity of Mount Tyree in Antarctica? The trace had to be wrong.

  “Not helpful,” Annie said, taking another bite of her sandwich. She glared at the man on her screen. “Let’s just hope you spring for a better hotel in Baltimore.”

  Chapter Nine

  Connor didn’t even want to imagine the devastation that would occur if this device reached New York City, DC, or any other city. The bomb was relatively small, but even a one-megaton explosion would flatten everything within 2.5 miles of ground zero, killing hundreds of thousands, maybe even over a million, depending on where it went off. It was a nightmare scenario.

  And the fact that he couldn’t get ahold of Pennington only enraged Connor further. Every time he tried, he went straight to the director’s voicemail.

  “Where the hell is he?” Connor growled, jamming his finger down on the END button. The act didn’t have the same relieving effect as slamming a handset down on its cradle.

  He took a deep breath and called Christina.

  She answered after two rings. Her voice was low, groggy from sleep. “Hello?”

  Connor stood, knocking the hotel menu off the bed and pacing. “Christina, it’s me, Connor. Wake up.”

  “What… I… What’s wrong?”

  “You need to wake up. Hakimi’s got a nuke.”

  “Hold on.”

  Connor heard the sound of rustling sheets on the other end of the line. “Come on.”

  Christina cleared her throat and sniffed. When she spoke again there was still a fair amount of grogginess in her voice, but she at least sounded coherent. “Connor, it’s two o’clock in the morning. What the hell is going on?”

  “Did you not hear what I said? Hakimi has a nuclear bomb. It’s in play right now.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’ve seen pictures. The captain of the salvage ship pulled a plane out of the water and had pictures on his phone. The B43 was right there, still mounted on the bomb rack. That was days ago, Chris. Who knows where it is by now. It could be halfway across the Pacific. We need to send out a National Emergency Flash Alert.”

  “B43? I don’t understand—”

  “You’re cc’d, it’s in your e-mail. Utah managed to connect the dots. That salvage operation Hakimi was doing, it was to uncover a lost nuke from the sixties. The guy’s got a nuke!”

  “Son of a bitch,” Christina whispered. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I’ve been trying to get ahold of Pennington for the last twenty minutes, but he’s not answering his phone.”

  “Oh, he’s pissed at you.”

  “What the hell is he pissed at me for?”

  “Are you kidding? Taking vacation to follow up on an unauthorized investigation, involving unapproved agency assets. Jackson was able to keep him from cutting you off completely, but I have a feeling it’s going to be bad when you get back. I mean, if you have any ass at all when he’s done with you, I’d be surprised.”

  “It’s not my ass I’m worried about,” Connor said. “It’s the millions of people endangered right now because of this asshole. That’s the only thing that matters.”

  “Connor, I get it, but how many threats do we get on a daily basis? Hundreds? Thousands? You know they’ll only look at this as another one of a zillion bogus threats they get every week.”

  “That’s exactly why I came out here in the first place—to prove that it wasn’t bogus. To prove that this is the real thing. We can’t afford to let ourselves be caught up in the bureaucratic red tape on this, Chris. We can’t.”

  A knock sounded on Connor’s hotel room door. “Hold on,” he said. “Food’s here.”

  He set the phone down on the dresser and snatched up a pile of Japanese yen. Looking through the peephole, he saw a young Japanese man in a white service jacket, a covered tray in one hand, balanced carefully over one shoulder. Connor’s stomach growled as he opened the door and smelled the fresh-grilled teriyaki chicken.

  The server smiled. “You order teriyaki chicken?”

  “Thanks, I—”

  The man’s free hand came up, and Connor caught a glimpse of matte-black steel. A Glock. He ducked sideways as the gun leveled and fired, the silencer on the end reducing the blast to a pop like a balloon. Connor felt the concussion of the shot against h
is face and heard the bullet slice through the air a fraction of an inch from his ear. The wall behind him exploded, spraying plaster and wood.

  Connor straightened up, backhanding the gun away, but the server—letting the food tray, plate, and utensils clatter to the floor—lashed out with his other hand, punching Connor square in the nose. Stars danced in Connor’s vision as he retreated into the room.

  Connor brought his boot up and launched a front kick into his attacker’s pelvis. The man used both forearms to knock the kick away and spin Connor around, off balance. He fell back into the wall, cracking the plaster.

  Again the gun came up, the silencer enormous in Connor’s face. He brought both arms together, forming an ‘X’, and caught the attack in the top cross-section, shoving the man’s gun hand up and to the side. The man squeezed off three more shots as Connor twisted to the right, wrapping his arms around the man’s wrists and pinning them together. Plumes of dust and plaster erupted from the wall and ceiling, covering them both.

  Connor jerked around, yanking hard on his attacker’s wrists and raking his fingers on the back of the man’s gun hand. It fired again, this time putting rounds into the floor inches from Connor’s feet. He grabbed the silencer, warm to the touch, and twisted hard. There was an audible snap of a bone and the man screamed in pain, dropping to one knee. Connor ripped the gun free. The man lunged forward, driving his shoulder into Connor’s chest, slamming him into the wall. He gasped as the impact forced the air from his lungs.

  The man’s attack had pinned Connor’s arms against his chest. He rotated, slamming the back of his elbow into his attacker’s ear. The blow didn’t seem to faze the man, who began to pummel Connor’s sides with rapid-fire punches. Connor brought a knee up into the man’s stomach, once, twice, a third time. He repeated his elbow strike, this time drawing blood. Finally the attacker staggered back a step, momentarily dazed.

  Without hesitation, Connor drove his boot hard into the man’s sternum, knocking him back. At the same time, he spun the pistol around, taking the grip in his shooting hand and bringing it up to fire.