by Jack Mars
“Jesus.” His voice came out in a hoarse whisper as he looked at his eyes.
He knew those eyes. He’d know them anywhere. But it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. “Christ. You… you were dead.”
“So were you for a couple years there,” the mechanic said in his smooth, almost lilting tone.
“I saw your body,” Zero choked out. This can’t be real.
“You saw a body that looked like mine.” The burly man shrugged one shoulder. “Let’s not pretend I wasn’t always smarter than you, Zero.”
“Good god.” Zero looked him up and down. He’d put on about thirty pounds, maybe more. Grown out the beard. Wore the trucker’s cap and colored lenses. Changed his voice.
But it was him. He was alive.
“I don’t believe it.” He took two steps and hugged Alan tightly.
His best friend, the one who had his back on so many ops, the one who had helped him have the memory suppressor installed instead of killing him on the Hohenzollern Bridge, the one that Zero thought he had found dead, stabbed to death in an apartment in Zurich… he was here. He was alive.
He thought back to the discovery in Zurich. The dead man’s face had been puffy and bloated, and his mind had immediately linked the doppelganger to Reidigger. Your mind fills in the blanks, Maria had once told him.
Reidigger had faked his own death, just like he had helped Kent Steele fake his. And he had been living under the guise of a well-connected mechanic only twenty minutes away.
“All this time?” Zero asked. His voice was hoarse, and his vision blurred slightly as a well of emotions bubbled to the surface. “You’ve been keeping an eye on us?”
“As best I could. Watson helped.”
That’s right. Watson knows. It was John Watson who had first introduced Reid Lawson to Mitch the mechanic—but he had only done so when Reid’s daughters were taken, when the stakes were too high and the CIA was of little help.
“Does anyone else know?” Zero asked.
Alan shook his head. “No. And they can’t. If the agency catches on, I’m a dead man.”
“You could have told me sooner.”
“No, I couldn’t have.” Alan smiled. “Without your memory intact, would you have recognized me? Would you have believed me if I simply told you?”
Zero had to admit he had a point.
“Was it Dr. Guyer? Did you go to see him?”
“I did,” Zero said. “It didn’t work at the time. It happened later, with a trigger word. And now…” He shook his head. “Now I know. I remember. I have to stop it, Alan.”
“I know you do. And you know that there’s nothing I’d like more than to be by your side while you do.”
“But you can’t be.” Zero understood completely. Besides, Alan had a task that was, in Zero’s eyes, just as significant to stopping a war. “I need you to keep them safe.”
“I will. I promise I will.” Alan’s eyes lit up suddenly. “That reminds me, I have something for you.” He reached through the open window of his truck and pulled out a Sig Sauer pistol. “Here. Compliments of the Division merc that assaulted your house.”
Zero took the pistol incredulously. “The Division was at my house? What happened?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle. Those two are definitely your kids.” Alan grinned, but it faded quickly. “You need help too, you know. Call Watson. Or your new pal, the Ranger.”
“No,” Zero said adamantly. He refused to compromise Watson or Strickland any further than he already had. “I’m better on my own.”
Alan sighed. “Just as bullheaded as ever.” In the distance, the telltale rotors of a helicopter drew nearer. “That’s our ride. You take care of yourself, Zero.”
“I will.” He hugged Reidigger once more. “Thank you for doing this. When all this is over, you and I are going to sit down and have a very long conversation over several beers.”
“You got it,” Reidigger agreed. But there was a melancholic dip in his tone, one that suggested he was thinking the same as Zero was at the moment—that one or both of them might not survive this ordeal. “Until then—don’t trust them.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“Anyone in the agency,” Alan said. “They were ready to kill you before, and they were happy to have me as the triggerman. They’re not going to make that same mistake again. This time around they’ll send someone who won’t lose a minute of sleep putting a bullet in the back of your head.”
“I know.” Zero shook his head. “I was thinking of at least getting in touch with Cartwright. I don’t think he’s in on it—”
“Christ, what did I just say? No one, you understand?” Alan’s gaze bored into his. “Especially not Cartwright. Zero… two years ago, Cartwright was the one that sent me and Morris after you on the bridge.”
“What?” A shiver ran up Zero’s spine.
“Yes. He didn’t send the Division. He didn’t send any killer asset. The order came down the chain for your assassination and Cartwright didn’t argue it. He sent us.”
A wave of fury rose like heat in his chest. Shawn Cartwright had pretended to be a friend, an ally, and had even warned Zero against trusting others like Riker.
The pounding of the chopper’s rotors roared overhead as it hovered over Meadow Field. Alan leaned in and said in his ear, “Goodbye, Zero.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder and strode away to meet the helicopter as it descended to the tall grass.
Zero hurried over to his waiting girls and hugged them both tightly once more. “I love you both,” he said in their ears. “Be good and take care of each other.”
“Love you too,” Sara told him with a squeeze.
“We will,” Maya promised as she wiped her eyes.
“Now go.” He let them go, and they hurried over to the black helicopter. They both glanced back at him once more before climbing into the cabin with Alan’s help. Then the door slid closed, and the chopper lifted off again. Zero stood there for a long moment, watching it as it got smaller and smaller in the sky. His head was still spinning from the knowledge that Alan Reidigger was somehow alive, but knowing that his daughters were in Alan’s hands gave him hope—and all the more determination to survive this.
Finally he tore his gaze from what was now a mere speck on the horizon and headed back to the car. For a few brief moments he sat there behind the wheel, wondering if that was the last time he would ever see his daughters. The sound of blood rushing in his ears was deafening.
He reached over and turned on the radio just for some noise. A male broadcaster’s voice immediately filled the cab.
“Our top story today continues to be the unfolding situation in the Persian Gulf,” the host said somberly. “Only hours ago an Iranian battleship fired rockets at the USS Constitution, an American destroyer on patrol with the Navy’s Fifth Fleet. In response, the Constitution returned fire, destroying the Iranian vessel and claiming the lives of all seventy-six crew members aboard.”
They’re moving fast. A pit formed in Zero’s stomach. He hadn’t expected this to unfold so quickly. That just means I have to move faster.
“The Iranian government has already issued a public statement,” the broadcaster continued, “in which they expressed their outrage over the destruction of their ship and proclaimed, and I quote, that ‘this event has been a clear and blatant act of war.’ Though there has not been a formal declaration, it appears that Iran is intent on igniting a new conflict with the US. White House Press Secretary Christine Cleary issued a very brief statement in response, stating only that President Pierson is fully aware of the situation and his cabinet is working quickly to convene the joint chiefs. He is expected to address the nation this evening.”
So that was their next play. The Brotherhood’s attack on American soil would stir the people into a state of xenophobia against Iranians, and the “attack” on the USS Constitution was a timely follow-up to incite a war. The president would meet with his advisors, and they would convince him th
at a renewed conflict in the Middle East was their only course of action.
Unless, he thought suddenly, he had a new advisor.
He pulled a card out of his pocket and dialed the number on it.
“Sanders,” answered the female aide who had approached him on the White House lawn.
“This is Agent Kent Steele,” he told her. “We met earlier today—”
“I recall,” she said abruptly. There was a tension in her voice, undoubtedly due to the recent events. “What can I do for you, Agent?”
“I need to speak with President Pierson.”
“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting,” said Sanders. “I’m sure you’re aware of what’s happening—”
“I am.” This time Zero cut her off. “And that’s why I’m calling. This is matter of national security, Ms. Sanders. So you can either get me a meeting with President Pierson, or you can explain to him later that you stood between him and everything that’s about to happen.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Less than a half hour later, Zero found himself once again in the White House, being ushered down a hall toward the Oval Office. He tried to smooth the wrinkles from his shirt, though it hardly mattered under the circumstances.
He was admitted to the president’s inner sanctum, where he was surprised to find Pierson alone. Zero had expected a flurry of activity, a coterie of aides and cabinet members making calls, setting up laptop networks and communicating with a dozen different agencies and foreign powers.
Yet there was none. President Pierson rose from his desk when Zero entered, looking as if he’d aged a decade since only a few hours earlier. His tie was loosened around his neck and the top two buttons of his pressed white shirt were undone.
“Agent Steele.” Pierson stuck out his right hand, and then scoffed at himself and shook Zero’s left. “Sorry. Forgot about the hand. Jesus, this is a mess.”
“I’ve heard.” Zero glanced about the office. “I have to admit, I was expecting more of a reception.”
“The joint chiefs are gathering currently in the Situation Room.” Pierson sighed and leaned against his desk with both hands. “I’m expected there any minute. While I’m glad you’re here, Zero, I’m afraid this meeting is going to have to be postponed.”
“Mr. President,” Zero pressed, “I have information.” The fingers of his left hand lingered near his pocket, inside of which was the USB stick. “Before you convene with the joint chiefs, there’s really something I need you to—”
“Sir.” The door to the Oval Office opened just a few inches, and the face of Emilia Sanders peered in. Her gaze flitted from the president to Zero and back. “They’re ready for you.”
“Thank you, Emilia.” Pierson tightened his tie to his throat and ran his palms down the front of his shirt. “I’m sorry, Zero, but my attention is required elsewhere.”
“Sir.” He took a step forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. He had to throw a Hail Mary; there was no way he could let Pierson enter the Situation Room uninformed. “I have very strong reason to believe that you cannot trust the men that are advising you.”
The president’s brow furrowed. “What reason? What do you know?”
“I have…” Zero started, but he threw a glance over his shoulder to find a Secret Service agent standing in the doorway to the Oval Office, waiting to escort the president to the Situation Room. “I can’t explain it right now. All I need is five minutes. Alone.”
Pierson rubbed his chin. He looked tired. “Come with me.”
“Sir?”
“Sit in on this meeting. Afterwards, I’ll give you your five minutes.” Pierson started toward the door, and Zero followed. It was all he could; he couldn’t dissuade the president from attending a meeting regarding a crisis of national security. And if it would get him five minutes alone with Pierson, then he would follow him into the lion’s den.
*
The John F. Kennedy Conference Room, located in the West Wing basement and known to most as the Situation Room, was the intelligence management center of the White House, more than five thousand square feet of communications equipment that allowed some of the most powerful men in the world to maintain security from a single place.
And Zero, it seemed, had just been awarded earned a seat at the table.
President Pierson swept into the room on the heels of two Secret Service members, who immediately positioned themselves on either side of the double doors that granted them access. Zero followed behind him. Now this was the flurry of activity that he had expected upon arrival; there were fourteen people occupying the long rectangular table that ran the length of the room, and every one of them stood when the president entered.
Zero glanced around quickly, scanning the faces. He recognized nearly all of them; the National Security Advisor was present, the Homeland Security Advisor, the White House Chief of Staff, Secretary of Defense Quentin Rigby, DNI John Hillis, and Press Secretary Christine Cleary, among others. He couldn’t help but note wryly that besides himself, Pierson, and Cleary, every other person in the room was a man over fifty-five.
He was mildly relieved to see that the CIA did not have a presence there. He’d half-expected to find Director Mullen or possibly even Deputy Director Riker rearing their heads. But this was a matter for heads of state, and the CIA was represented by DNI Hillis, who would be the one to relay any orders to Mullen.
“Please, take your seats.” Pierson lowered himself into the black chair at the head of the table, closest to the doors. He gestured toward the empty seat to his right and Zero took it.
Several pairs of eyes were on him as he did, but only the Secretary of Defense spoke up. Retired four-star general Quentin Rigby carried a stiffness in his neck and shoulders and wore deep worry lines in his face that suggested he had seen the worst sides of humanity, and though discerning, he was not afraid to speak his mind.
“Mr. President.” Rigby remained standing as he addressed Pierson. “I don’t think I need to remind you that what we’re about to discuss is highly discretionary—”
“Noted, General Rigby, thank you.” Pierson cut off the general with a wave of his hand. “Agent Steele is here acting as a security advisor. He’s been vetted by the CIA and has proven his capacity for discretion time and time again. Not to mention that he’s the only one in this room with any recent experience with the type of situation we’re dealing with.”
“Even so,” Rigby pressed, “it is highly unorthodox, sir.”
“I don’t think I need to remind you, General, that I am the only person that gets to decide who is in this room.” Pierson stared Rigby down.
Zero almost smirked. He had never heard Pierson speak to anyone like that; usually his approach was diplomacy and charm. On the one hand, Zero could tell that the president was bedraggled by the events. On the other, it was nice to see him showing some real backbone.
Rigby nodded and lowered himself back into his seat. “Yes sir.”
“Mr. Holmes.” President Pierson nodded to his Chief of Staff, a short balding man with owlish glasses. “If you would.”
“Of course, sir.” Peter Holmes rose and cleared his throat. “At approximately seventeen hundred hours local time, an Iranian battleship fired two rockets at the destroyer USS Constitution during a routine patrol in the Persian Gulf. Due to the recent change in ROE, with which I believe we’re all familiar, the Constitution was authorized to—”
“Excuse me.” Zero raised his hand as if he was in a classroom, cutting off the Chief of Staff. “What change in ROE?”
“The rules of engagement, Agent,” said Holmes.
“I know the acronym,” Zero said shortly. “What was the change?”
“In light of the recent attack on American soil,” Rigby cut in, “the president signed an executive order just this morning which dictates that any foreign force that fires within a specific proximity to American military personnel are to be considered hostile and dealt with using extreme prejudice.”
Zero didn’t let himself show any reaction, but his mind churned. What a coincidence, he thought. “And what is the specific proximity, General?”
“We’re not here to outline the details of an executive order,” Rigby shot back. “We’re here to discuss an extremely pressing and volatile situation.”
Rigby was dodging the question. “What was the trajectory of the rockets?” Zero asked.
“Sorry?” Holmes pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“The trajectory,” Zero repeated. “Angle of ascent, descent, type of rocket, proximity, anything. How much of a threat was this ship to the Constitution?”
“Enough of a threat for a captain in the United States Navy to make a judgment call,” said Rigby forcefully. “Are you questioning the captain’s judgment, Agent Steele?”
I’m questioning his motivations, he nearly said. But he held his tongue. He couldn’t afford to tip his hand again like he had twice already. “Not at all. I’m merely suggesting that there are three sides to this story. The captain’s, the Iranians’, and the truth. What about cameras?”
“Cameras,” Rigby repeated flatly. He flashed a patronizing smirk. “Do you know a lot about destroyer-class ships, Agent?”
“Can’t say I have a lot of experience.” This time Zero flashed a smirk of his own. “All I know is that the USS Constitution is an Arleigh-Burke class destroyer, built in 1988 and first commissioned in 1991. They were the only US destroyer class used from 2005 to 2016, until the Zumwalt class was commissioned. The Constitution would be outfitted with an Aegis integrated weapons system, antisubmarine rockets, a passive electronically scanned radar array, and Tomahawk missiles—the latter of which I’m assuming was used to destroy the Iranian vessel and claim seventy-six lives. Considering it is one of the most technologically advanced machines on the entire ocean, and that it’s carrying enough firepower to conquer any number of banana republics, I would assume that cameras weren’t out of the question.”
