by Brad Thor
“You took all of our sleepers offline. All of them! What choice have you left me? My superiors might disagree with my actions at first, but in time I think they’ll come around. Especially with what’s to be gained.”
“What could you possible gain from this?” asked Harvath as he lowered his hand toward his leg pouch where he’d placed his flashlight.
“What’s to gain? The gains are boundless,” sneered Draegar. “September 11th might have drawn your country together, but an attack of this magnitude coupled with the loss of your entire national leadership will absolutely decimate you. It’s the blow America has needed for decades. Worldwide opinion of the United States is the lowest it has ever been. Though the attack will be seen as a tragedy, not many tears will be shed for your country. Like it or not, America will be forced to turn inward and focus on its own rebuilding and with America’s understandable withdrawal from world affairs, Russia will step in and claim its rightful role asthe world superpower.”
The man’s unflappable confidence and dedication to his task was chilling. “You forget one thing,” said Harvath. “Every single blast crater will have Russia’s name written all over it. The residue will be irrefutable proof that the nukes came from your country.”
Draegar’s sneer turned into a smile. “Actually, every blast crater will haveyour name written all over it. The fissile material in each of these weapons was taken from one of your Dark Night nuclear devices. The facts will speak for themselves.”
Harvath just shook his head, his hand closing in on his flashlight. He had pulled the same stunt in Berlin without success, but prayed that at much closer range, and in such an enclosed space, this time it would work.
“You don’t think so?” chided Draegar, consumed with the hubris of his plan. “Let me ask you. Which story do you think the international community will be more prepared to accept? That Russia carried out an unprovoked attack against America or that the arrogant, warmongering United States suffered another catastrophic terrorist attack because of its insidious desire to force its will on the rest of the world? People have suspected for years that many of our suitcase nukes have gone missing. They just didn’t know that we were the ones who took them.”
“You’ll never get away with it,” said Harvath.
Draegar laughed and raised his prosthetic hand in salute. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that. But no more games now. I hope you brought your appetite. The sooner you get started, the sooner you may actually get out of here. Chew, chew, chew.”
As Draegar stepped forward to make sure his prisoner properly cuffed himself, Harvath pulled out his flashlight, flipped up the filter and said, “Chew on this, asshole,” as he depressed the thumb switch on the tail-cap.
While the former Spetsnaz soldier and East German Stasi operative had been able to dodge the overwhelming 225-lumen beam in Berlin, this time he wasn’t so lucky. The man was instantly blinded.
Harvath dove to the ground and struggled to get to his Beretta before Draegar could raise his own weapon and fire. But all at once, he knew his efforts were in vain. The figure of Alexandra Ivanova had appeared in the doorway and the room was instantly filled with brilliant muzzle flashes accompanied by the sharp reports of the CX4 Storm carbine Harvath had given her.
Chapter 56
THE WHITE HOUSE
TWO DAYS LATER
H arvath avoided the hustle and bustle of Pennsylvania Avenue and entered the White House via the southwest gate. Unlike previous visits, he was asked to wait in the guardhouse until his escort arrived. It seemed an odd request, as Harvath was a former member of the president’s protective detail and had never been asked to wait before. When Secret Service Agents Tom Hollenbeck, Chris Longo, and Kate Palmer arrived to walk him up West Executive Avenue, he had a feeling something was up.
As they walked, his friends made small talk. Palmer told him how good he looked, while Hollenbeck and Longo regaled him with stories about the two nurses they had met at the hospital in Berlin.
Though the trio refused to tell him why he needed an escort, Harvath decided not to press it and instead took the good-natured, albeit incessant, ribbing in stride. He allowed himself a few minutes to get lost in the unseasonably warm February day and the relaxed fellowship of his former Secret Service coworkers—each of whom mattered more to him than they would ever know.
After holding the door open as they arrived at the West Wing, Hollenbeck jumped ahead of the party and steered them toward the White House Mess.
“Tom,” said Harvath. “What’s going on?”
“They’re not ready for you yet in the Situation Room, so I thought we might get a cup of coffee together in the Mess,” replied Hollenbeck.
Though Harvath was wary, he went along with the request and the minute he turned into the cafeteria he was greeted by an overwhelming wave of applause. In addition to all of his former Secret Service colleagues, it appeared as if every White House staffer was in attendance.
Uncomfortable with such fulsome praise, Harvath thought things couldn’t get any worse until Dr. Skip Trawick popped up in the back of the room with a pint glass in hand and began singing in his mock Scottish accent, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” The rest of the assembled guests joined in and Harvath had to suffer through it until they finished and a glass of punch was shoved into his hand. He was then led over to a cake decorated with an American flag and the wordsForever May She Wave where he cut the first piece and then handed the knife over to Longo and placed him in charge.
A call came over Tom Hollenbeck’s earpiece and he waded through the crowd of grateful well-wishers to extricate Harvath and accompany him to the Situation Room.
“They don’t really have any idea of what we did, do they?” asked Harvath as they exited the Mess.
“Not really,” answered Hollenbeck. “Technically, the entire event with the Russians never happened.”
“Then what was that all about?”
“The White House needed a reason to explain why Congress had been put into hiding and the president had conducted his State of the Union address from the White House. As far as the press and everyone else is concerned, there was a credible terrorist threat against the capitol, and you and Gary Lawlor, along with several federal law enforcement agencies and the DC Metro Police, helped to neutralize that threat. The folks at the White House just wanted to show their appreciation.”
“Folks at the White House,” asked Harvath, “or you, Longo, and Palmer?”
Hollenbeck stopped and turned to face Harvath. “So what if they don’t know what really happened? The gratitude you witnessed and hopefully felt back there was genuine. For once in your life, take a moment and enjoy some of the praise that you so rightfully deserve. You’re damn good at your job, Scot, and your country is lucky to have you.”
Hollenbeck didn’t wait for Harvath to respond. In fact, he didn’t want any response from Harvath, that’s not why he said what he had said. He said it because he meant it. When he took his little boy to ball games and sang “The Star Spangled Banner,” when they got to the part about America being the land of the free and the home of the brave, there was a handful of guys he thought about and Harvath was one of them.
They arrived at the security checkpoint before Harvath could come up with anything to say. Hollenbeck briefly put a hand on his shoulder and then turned and walked away as the two Marine guards looked over Harvath’s ID and waved him through.
There was the familiar hiss as the airlock released and the Situation Room door swung open. As Harvath entered, he expected to see a mass of agency heads seated at the long cherrywood table, but there were only three people present—the president, Defense Secretary Hilliman, and General Paul Venrick, commander of the Joint Special Operations Command. Though Harvath had no idea how they had gotten hold of it so fast, each of them had a small piece of his cake sitting in front of them.
Harvath took a seat where the president indicated and waited for the commander in chief to s
tart the meeting.
“For once, I find myself in a meeting with no idea of how to begin,” said the president, with more than his customary economy of sentiment.
Harvath was at a loss by the show of emotion on the face of the normally rock-steady man. The uncomfortable silence that descended upon the Situation Room was broken when General Venrick took the lead, stood up from his chair, and saluted Scot Harvath. The General was quickly joined by Secretary Hilliman, and even the president himself. The men held their salute until Harvath rose from his chair and returned their expression of esteem.
No matter what followed, this moment was the greatest honor Scot Harvath had ever experienced in his life.
“Okay,” said the president, sitting down and stabbing at a piece of cake, “let’s bring Scot up to speed.”
Defense Secretary Hilliman was the first to speak. He described how the FBI, in conjunction with NEST teams from the Department of Energy, had been able to locate all of the sleepers’ nukes in each city and successfully deactivate them. Each had been hidden in a mausoleum with the same family name as the one Scot and Alexandra had uncovered in the Congressional Cemetery—Lenin.
While on the subject of Alexandra, Hilliman explained the high points of her debriefing. While waiting for Harvath outside the first mausoleum, she had heard something and thought it might be Draegar. She went to investigate, but it had been a ruse. Draegar drew her away from the mausoleum, and the next thing she heard was the explosion. By the time she saw Draegar again, he had already attacked Morrell and his men and was making his way back to the mausoleum where he was holding Harvath captive.
Hilliman went on to explain that Alexandra had been offered asylum, but had asked instead that General Stavropol’s journal be entrusted to her care. Other than that, all she wanted was a flight home. As those were her only requests, the United States had willingly granted them to her, after, of course, photocopies had been made and she had fully explained how to decipher the coded entries.
Once the report that Gary Lawlor was doing much better and would be transported Stateside soon was delivered, Secretary Hilliman turned over the meeting to General Venrick.
“The President,” began Venrick, “has asked me here to bring you up to speed on the operations end of things.”
“What’s our position with the Russians after all of this?”
“They still claim that the nukes we uncovered here had been stolen from them.”
“After everything that’s happened, they’re still denying it?” asked Harvath. “The Russians aren’t going to pay any price?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. They’ve definitely paid a price. Not only did you sink two of their Sokzhoi patrol boats, but thanks to you and the rest of the team, you were also able to sink theGagarin . That was a major tactical coup.
“In the meantime, we’ve got our people working around the clock on the notes and schematics that Dr. Nesterov left behind. The NSA already thinks they’ve found a way to subvert the Russian air defense system if they ever bring it back up on line.”
“What do you think the chances of that happening are?” asked Harvath.
“At this point, not so good. We’ve already quietly gotten word to the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund about what the Russians have been doing with their aid money, and they are not very happy.”
“So what’s next?”
Defense Secretary Hilliman leaned forward and taking a handkerchief from his pocket, took off his glasses and began cleaning them. “Things are going to get pretty frosty for Moscow. They were a pain in the ass for us during the whole Iraq situation, and we’ve now seen that we can’t trust them at all as an ally. While it would be foolish for us to completely break off ties with them altogether, they are going to be relegated to a very low rung on our ladder of diplomatic and international priorities.”
The president stood and walked around the table. Upon reaching Scot he extended his hand and said, “You are one of the most valuable assets the United States has. Your patriotism, loyalty, and service to your country is something that we will always be grateful for. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Harvath. “I won’t.”
“Good. There’s something else. Until Gary Lawlor is back on his feet, I need you to handle things at the OIIA. Do you think you can do that?”
“Those are some pretty big shoes to fill,” answered Harvath.
The president smiled. “I’ve already talked it over with Gary, and he agrees with me that there’s nobody better suited to do it. Just don’t get too comfortable. He’ll be back to work before you know it.”
“I’m looking forward to that. Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll do my best.” Sensing that the meeting was over, Harvath added, “Is there anything else, Mr. President?”
The president looked at his watch and indicated that Harvath should remain seated. Fifteen seconds later, the voice of Charles Anderson, the president’s chief of staff came over the speaker phone and said, “Mr. President, I have President Nevkin of Russia on the line.”
“Good,” responded Rutledge. “Put him through.”
“President Rutledge. Jack,” came the voice of the Russian president over the speaker phone. “You certainly have taken your time in getting back to me.”
“As you are well aware, we’ve been a little busy here.”
“So I have seen on the news, but so busy that you were not able to return my phone calls?”
“President Nevkin,” said Rutledge, “Let’s not waste each other’s time. Tomorrow afternoon at approximately 1300 GMT, an American C-130 is going to land on the Valhalla Ice Shelf three miles below the North Pole. Onboard will be the man-portable nuclear devices you planted in our country.”
“But, Jack, I told you they were stolen by the—” began Nevkin.
“Chechens, I remember. We also have eighteen sleeper agents from your country in custody complete with enough evidence to bury you for the next two hundred years.”
“These aren’t Russian agents. Whomever you have caught are terrorists,” replied the Russian president. “Plain and simple.”
“Terrorists,” laughed Rutledge, “If that’s what you’re calling your disavowed agents, that’s fine by me. But you and I both know who they are, why they were here, and who sent them.”
“This comes as a complete shock,” said Nevkin. “If it does turn out that these ‘sleepers’ as you call them were indeed sent by someone in Russia, I can guarantee you that I had no idea that—”
Rutledge was sick of listening to the Russian president’s BS and said, “No more lies, Dmitri. You made your move and you lost. There is going to be a very heavy price to pay for what your country has done. And believe me, Russia is going to pay it, whether you like it or not. In the days ahead, against my better judgment, I am going to exhibit tremendous restraint. That said, I suggest you get out of Moscow for a bit. I’ll give you my personal guarantee that your villa on the Black Sea won’t be targeted.”
The Russian president was aghast. “Certainly,” he implored, “you are not going to conduct a nuclear strike against the Russian Federation.”
“No,” replied Rutledge, “but we are going to respond. And whatever we do, you are going to absorb it without retaliation.”
“Jack how can you expect—”
“That’sMr. President to you,” said Rutledge. “You thought you could hold the United States of America hostage and you were wrong, dead wrong. Now it’s time to pay the piper. I’ll extend you the courtesy of telling you that we are only targeting military and governmental assets. You have twelve hours to get your people out. You brought this upon yourself and if you even think of engaging any of our fighter aircraft or attempt to shoot down any of our missiles I will not only double, but treble our retaliation. Is this clear?”
There was a long moment of silence before the Russian president responded, “Yes, it is clear.”
Rutledge disconnected the call
and turned to Harvath. “So? How’d I do?”
“Perfect. I couldn’t have handled it better myself.”
“I’m glad you agree,” responded Rutledge. “Now get upstairs and enjoy yourself. No disappearing out the back door.”
Scot stood from his chair. “Is that an order, sir?”
“You’d better believe it.”
“Then I’m on my way.”
Epilogue
CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
TWO MONTHS LATER
T hough it was two months overdue, it was finally the fitting memorial service Maureen Harvath had envisioned to mark the ten years since the passing of her husband, Michael.
The day had been long and emotional. After dropping Mrs. Harvath back at home, Scot, Meg, and Gary returned to the Hotel Del Coronado. While Gary had been given permission by his doctors to travel, he still wasn’t back to full speed and declined joining Scot and Meg for a drink in the bar.
Scot ordered a margarita for himself and a glass of wine for Meg, and when their drinks arrived, they took them outside. The sun was just beginning to set as they took off their shoes and walked down to the Hotel Del’s white sand beach.
As they strolled, Harvath reminisced about his grueling SEAL training, most of which had taken place not very far from where they were right now. Meg put her feet in the surf and got a laugh out of Scot when she commented on how cold the water was. Those had been some of the toughest days of his life, and he remembered at times envying the families and casual tourists strolling along the beach while he and his fellow classmates endured frigid swims, never-ending runs, and being forced to help hold a combat rubber raiding craft above his head until he thought for sure his arms were going to fall off. Looking back on it now he realized that while he was competing against his classmates and most definitely against the elements, more than anything else he had been competing against himself.
He had also come to another realization. Scot Harvath was comfortable with who he was and what he did for a living. Though his father might have had some influence on his becoming a SEAL, it was Scot who had mustered the strength, stamina, and integrity to stay one. Yes, he loved his father very much and he missed him too, but who his father had been had nothing to do with who he was now. The career changes from SEAL to Secret Service and now OIIA had nothing to do with trying to please his deceased father. It was about finding new challenges for himself and being there when his country needed him most. The fact that the highest point in his life had come when he had been saluted by General Venrick, Defense Secretary Hilliman, and President Rutledge two months prior in the White House Situation Room, told him everything he needed to know about himself.
