“Just a hunch.” It was all Leroux could offer, his orders still standing that his investigation into Sherrie’s kidnapping was off the books. He rolled his hand. “Tag the agent’s head then play it forward, let’s see what happens.”
The action was swift as the other agents quickly secured the scene, too late, but Leroux saw it immediately.
Special Agent Logan had definitely made eye contact with someone. Leroux kept it to himself, about to clear the room so he could figure it out, when Dillard made it unnecessary.
“He looked at somebody,” he said, his voice subdued, almost as if in shock.
And the room fell silent as they all realized the truth.
One is a madman.
Two a conspiracy.
And if Special Agent Logan knew who to look at in the room, he was not being coerced by forces unknown.
He was involved.
Deep.
Capitol Hill, Washington, DC
Senator Clark Blackburn jabbed toward an approximation of where he thought the White House was from the head of the table in Conference Room 214. There were no windows so it was just a stab in the proverbial dark, but his point he was certain wouldn’t be missed on the half dozen hopefully like-minded individuals gathered with him.
“That man just violated the Constitution of these United States. By activating MYSTIC, he’s violating the rights of every single law-abiding American. It’s intolerable! Unprecedented! Illegal!
Representative Terri Noel’s head bobbed in agreement. “It’s un-presidential. And it has to be stopped. We risk starting down a slippery slope if this is allowed to continue. I move we immediately call both Houses to order and override the President’s decision.”
“Agreed?” asked Blackburn, happy someone else was readily siding with him.
Heads around the table bobbed as the door behind Blackburn opened. He turned, surprised at the sight of three Secret Service agents entering. “This is a private meeting. We are not to be disturbed!”
One of the agents closed the door as the other two removed their weapons, threading suppressors in place. Blackburn jumped from his seat as quickly as his old, arthritic bones would allow, turning to face the men, spreading his arms out and expanding his chest as wide as he could, stepping to the right to shield Terri Noel, the only woman in the room. Blackburn had fought in Vietnam and didn’t bother crying for help as he knew it was already too late. He had survived that war, four tours in the thick of things, and had been decorated more times than he cared to remember.
And he’d be damned if any terrorist would see a hint of fear on his face, a tremble on his lip, or hear a word of pleading on his tongue.
The first shot startled him, more the sound than the feeling. He fell backward but managed to grab the edge of the table, catching himself. A searing pain began to spread through his chest as he felt Terri’s hands on his back trying to hold him up as she screamed. Like a movie played in slow motion he saw the three gunmen advance, their weapons discharging with each squeeze of the trigger, the muzzle flashes brilliant as death screamed from each elongated barrel, the suppressors muffling the sounds but not silencing them like Hollywood would have you believe.
The second shot spun him around, into Terri’s arms, the horror on her face as their eyes met palpable, her scream suddenly silenced as the left side of her skull was torn open by a well-aimed shot over his shoulder.
They collapsed in a heap, he on top of her, his cheek against hers, their shared warmth quickly fading as they both bled out, the first soldiers to die in the fight to save America from itself.
Yellow Sea, Contiguous Zone, 18 Nautical miles off the coast of China
“Jesus Christ, Elisa, keep your head down!”
Christopher Dunn grabbed his wife, Elisa, pulling her back down to the deck as they hid behind the gunwales, at least six ships now converged within sight, lobbing what he assumed were depth charges over their sides. Massive eruptions under the water vibrated through their Ovni 39 sailboat, occasionally drenching them in water as the shockwaves reached the surface. They had dropped their sea anchor for the night and had been enjoying a meal with a fine bottle of Australian Chalk Hill chardonnay when the first ship had roared past them, its wake tossing them like a lone apple in a dunking barrel.
He had immediately registered his protest over several public bands to no avail, and stopped when he saw several more ships on the horizon converging on their position.
That was when the first depth charge had erupted.
“We’ve got to get the hell out of here!” he had shouted, immediately setting to work at raising the sails, his wife momentarily frozen in panic eventually helping. It had taken time to pull in the sea anchor but they were finally underway, heading for South Korea, his binoculars telling him these were Chinese ships that were breaking international law.
“We’re in the contiguous zone,” he had confirmed with their GPS when they were finally moving, they can’t do that!”
“Well they are!” his wife shouted.
Underway, they had kept low, it appearing the vessels were working their way east in the same direction they were going.
“They must be tracking a sub!”
“American?”
“Or Russian. Certainly not one of ours!”
He had actually laughed, he and his wife Canadian, its submarine fleet woefully inadequate considering its northern territorial responsibilities. Botched politics over the past few decades had made what was once the fifth largest navy in the world a mere shadow of its former self.
Elisa had said nothing, instead raising her cellphone to record what was happening as they lay flat on the deck.
“Are you kidding me?”
She had looked at him as if she had no clue what he meant. He had never understood the cellphone craze, the urge to record everything happening and to take hundreds of pictures of yourself with your arm outstretched making duck lips at a tiny camera, then posting it on the Internet for all to click Like, there no option to click “You’re an idiot with no self-esteem”.
Suddenly one of the closer vessels seemed to bow toward them, its entire hull, parallel to them now, appearing to bend as a fireball erupted from the opposite side, lighting the entire area, the only light before the stars and search lights pointed at the water.
And their own lights, which he had killed after the first several minutes.
Better not to let them know there are witnesses.
Alarms carried across the waves as the ship’s crew reacted to their new reality, secondary explosions sending shockwaves in all directions, Dunn certain he could feel the heat from the flames as they continued to sail east, the flaming ship’s zigzag pattern halted, several other of her sister ships turning to assist.
He pushed himself to his knees, the attack apparently halted for the moment, and began to check the boat for any damage. He could hear the bilge pump working overtime as it tried to rid their sturdy vessel of the water that had washed over their deck with the blasts, but other than that they seemed none the worse for wear, their sails intact and full with a light but steady easterly wind allowing them to finally put some distance between them and the action.
Something bumped against their hull causing Elisa to yelp and drop her phone into the ocean.
Yellow Sea, Contiguous Zone, 20 Nautical miles off the coast of China
4 miles from the Exclusive Economic Zone
Dylan Kane leaned forward, trying to see through the hull of the mini-sub as they approached the surface. His displays showed camera views of what was ahead and above, and from what he could see Captain Lynch had definitely given them the diversion they needed.
And perhaps started a war.
Lynch had been about to jettison the mini-sub to make his getaway when Kane had arrived, the top speed of the USS Columbia at least as good as any of the surface ships they were facing, but not with something on its back. He had been reluctant to let them go but Kane had insisted their intel w
as too important to wait perhaps many hours before it would be safe enough to surface and send a signal.
Lynch had quickly agreed, simply eager to get the mini-sub away. When Kane had said he needed a diversion so they couldn’t be tracked, Lynch had pointed to the hatch, saying nothing, but his barked orders as Kane left the con were clear.
He was going to fire a single torpedo.
The shockwave had been tremendous when the torpedo had made impact, and each secondary explosion vibrated through the hull sending his pulse rate up a few notches each time. Lee Fang sat beside him, her knuckles white from gripping the arms of her seat, her lips pressed tightly together, saying nothing.
His instruments were showing multiple surface contacts, all but one now converging on what he assumed was the flaming wreck of one of the Chinese ships that had been trying to either destroy the USS Columbia or bring it to the surface.
He was pretty sure either outcome would have been satisfactory.
With the target hit, the depth charges had stopped almost immediately as rescue operations began, but he was certain the reprieve wouldn’t last long.
He had only minutes to get his message out.
“There it is,” he said, pointing at the display. There was another target on the surface, small, moving slowly east, and Kane had a hunch it was civilian. And with it making such poor speed, perhaps five knots, he was thinking sailboat.
And they’d make excellent cover.
He had no doubt that at this moment the USS Columbia was making best speed to international waters and the nearest US Seventh Fleet ships, their top speed about four to five times his.
But they’d have to do it silent and deep.
Which meant no communications.
He didn’t have that kind of time.
“Here we go.”
The depth gauge indicated they were about to surface, and the eerie infrared image on one of his screens showed they were about to come up right beside the vessel he was hoping was civilian and friendly.
There was a bump as their hulls tapped.
“Oops.”
He rose and backed out of his seat, motioning for Fang to take over. She quickly changed seats and assumed the controls.
“Keep us alongside, just below the surface. I’ll be back.”
Kane cycled through the airlock and was soon in the water, underneath the mini-sub. Attached by a long cable so he wouldn’t be left behind, he crawled along the hull then reached up, pulling himself out of the water, hooking his armpits over the gunwale of what did indeed turn out to be a rather nice sailboat.
With a terrified couple staring at him.
He smiled his most disarming smile, deciding to open with humor.
“Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?”
Eyeballs popped wide as eyebrows raced up foreheads and jaws dropped. The middle-aged couple clung to each other, both shocked and terrified.
But at least they appeared to be Westerners and not Chinese.
“Do you speak English.”
“Canadian,” said the man.
“If you’re Canadian, then shouldn’t you be apologizing for something? Or do you just speak Canadian?”
“I’m sorry, I mean, we’re Canadian, we speak English.”
Kane rolled onto the deck, staying low. “And French no doubt.”
“Sorry, that’s just propaganda. The vast majority of us don’t.”
“No igloos and dog teams either, eh?” He emphasized the ‘eh’.
The man smiled. “Only in the Arctic.” He paused. “Sorry, but who are you?”
Kane winked. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” The couple pushed back slightly with their feet, Kane waving them off. “Just a joke. I’m trying to break the ice.”
“Sorry, but you’re not succeeding,” replied the woman.
Kane frowned. “Sorry about that. My sense of humor is an acquired taste.” He held up a finger. “Excuse me a minute.” He fished his satellite phone out of a side pocket and removed it from the sealed baggie. He entered his code of the day into the keypad, he having received it from the Numbers Station assigned to him by Leroux, one not in common use, and different from the shortwave radio station officially assigned to him before the F-35 mission had begun.
Throughout the world spy agencies operated Numbers Stations. Begun after World War II, these short wave stations were One Way Voice Links that relayed important information to operatives in nearly unbreakable code. These mysterious channels would broadcast series of numbers, sometimes alphanumerics, read either by a computer or a woman—and on rare occasions a man or child—and were sometimes a spy’s only link to home.
His critical piece of information received this morning was the code he had entered. It would allow him to communicate directly with Langley, on a completely secure line, scrambled with his code. It would be impossible to break, at least not in enough time to matter.
The phone rang.
And rang.
Uh oh.
The Oval Office, The White House, Washington, DC
President Jacob Starling had never seen real fear before, at least not in old men. Most had grown up in times far tougher than these—save the last two weeks—and most had fought in wars witnessing horrors firsthand that would rival anything on today’s streets.
But Speaker of the House Carney was terrified.
As were his colleagues.
“Something has to be done, Mr. President. They’ve infiltrated the White House and Capitol Hill.” He threw up his hands. “They’re everywhere! The government can’t function because we can’t get a quorum. Almost everybody immediately went on vacation after the murders.” He paused, sucking in a deep breath, staring directly at Starling. “Mr. President, the nation demands action, and the people’s representatives demand it.”
Starling sat on the edge of his desk, his head nodding in agreement the entire time. He was just as scared as Carney and the others were, but he hid it better.
Perhaps because you have a massive security detail.
He pursed his lips as he sucked in a deep breath.
And so did your predecessor.
“What would you have me do?”
It was a simple question. He was open to suggestions. MYSTIC had been activated but yet to yield anything. The attacks had continued, but they hadn’t found any cellphone traffic yet, the last two bombers having been found fit with earpieces, the terrorists apparently already not only prepared for the MYSTIC contingency, but aware it had been activated.
They are everywhere.
Governments were sieves of information, people taking jobs not as callings, but for paychecks. Orders were followed if asked nicely, and lips were loose because of a lack of understanding on how something that came across your desk might be interesting to you but invaluable to the enemy.
Civilians just don’t get it.
Carney looked flustered, collapsing onto one of the couches. “I don’t know, Mr. President. Put troops on the streets?”
“The National Guards of every state are at full alert.”
“Then the Army.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Carney shook his head. “No, Mr. President. You’re the only one who can do that.”
His eyebrows rose slightly at the thought. “Suspend Posse Comitatus?”
“Request Congress to authorize it, and we will. I’ve already confirmed this with my colleagues.”
Starling looked at General Thorne, the only man in the room he couldn’t read. “What do you think, General?”
General Thorne stepped forward, his expression grave. “Mr. President, I think we need to take bold, unprecedented action.”
Starling rose from his perch, crossing his arms as he sensed a bombshell about to land. “Such as?”
“Sir, suspending Posse Comitatus is merely a first step. Our Armed Forces will still be hamstrung by the Constitution and the civil liberties of American citizens.”
&nb
sp; Starling felt a pit begin to form in his stomach. “And you think this is a bad thing?”
Thorne’s jaw squared. “Absolutely. You need to take bold steps like you did when you activated MYSTIC.”
“Which hasn’t yielded anything to date that is useful,” interjected Homeland Security Secretary Wainwright.
Thorne ignored him. “Decisions like that will win the day.”
Starling was almost afraid to ask. “Do you have any particular decisions in mind?”
“Suspend the Constitution, declare martial law.”
Gasps filled the room, but to Starling’s shock he found himself agreeing as faces in the room began to turn from stunned stares to nods of assent, as if everyone was relieved someone had said what they were all thinking.
Carney rose from the couch. “Mr. President, if you do this, I guarantee you the support of Congress.”
Starling looked at Carney then back at General Thorne. “As Military head of our armed forces, that would make you de facto leader of the country.”
“Only for as long as necessary, Mr. President. As soon as the threat is neutralized and order is restored, civilian authority would be returned immediately.”
Starling frowned, looking at the Congressional leaders gathered in the room. “And I have your support on this.”
“Absolutely, Mr. President.”
“You’ll be at the press briefing, shoulder to shoulder with me, when I make the announcement?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Starling shook his head, sitting back on the edge of his desk. “I don’t know. It’s never been done before. To hand the country over to our military seems so un-American, so unfathomable, I can’t even imagine what the American people will think. To be the President who goes down in history as the one who ended over two centuries of democratic rule!”
“You’ll go down in history as the man who saved his country so that it could continue for another two hundred years under democratic rule.” It was Thorne that delivered the words.
Death to America (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #4) Page 14
