by Jack Mars
Rigby stared him down for a long moment. “No cameras picked up the angle of attack,” he said finally. “But you’re welcome to read the captain’s report if you’d like.” The general slid a folder Zero’s way.
He opened it; the first page was a very brief report, only a few paragraphs, from a Captain Warren. The details were sparse. Warren claimed simply that an IRGC ship fired two rockets at the Constitution. Neither hit, but the attempt was deemed enough of a threat for Warren to make the judgment call to return fire—with, as Zero had predicted, eight Tomahawk missiles. The enemy ship had been obliterated.
Not only was it overkill, but that was the only part of the report that Zero actually believed. Anything else would have been easy to falsify. The Persian Gulf, and Captain Warren, was thousands of miles away. Far from anyone being able to question him meaningfully.
“Brass tacks,” said Rigby, “are that Iran is publicly considering this an act of war. They say we fired first. We say they fired first. There’s been no formal declaration of war from them, but the American people are going to expect a definitive answer. We cannot abide another attack—”
“Another attack?” Zero interjected again.
Rigby blinked at him. “Were you not in the Midtown Tunnel at the time of the bombing, Agent? When hundreds of American lives were lost?”
Zero shook his head. “That was the work of a radical terrorist faction that consisted of less than twenty men. Not an entire nation or region.”
“Tell that to the American people,” Rigby argued.
Zero said nothing in response, but he knew in that moment that his assumption was right. The conspirators wanted to use the recent attack as a way to rally the people to the cause of war.
“All right,” Pierson cut in, holding up a hand. “Let’s take a step back here. Roland, what sort of global responses are we seeing?”
The Secretary of State, Roland Kemmerer, quickly scanned his notes as he spoke. “Bad news first, I suppose. Intelligence and satellite recon suggests that Iran is already seeking allies in Iraq and Oman, as well as some Syrian nationalist groups. If they banded together, they would have the ability to close the Strait of Hormuz.”
There was a moment of reverential silence to allow the comment to sink in before Rigby said, “You know how detrimental that could be, Mr. President.”
“Not only would that eliminate a strategic advantage for the Fifth Fleet,” Holmes added, “but we could be facing a major economic downturn.”
“A recession, to say the least. Possibly worse.” Kemmerer shook his head.
Zero bit his tongue to keep from reacting. Sons of bitches. This was as rehearsed as a play. They’d been waiting for years for this exact moment. He never would have imagined that he would be present for it, yet here he was, sitting in the Situation Room as these warmongers attempted to sway a president.
Pierson rubbed his chin pensively. His face was ashen; not only was he the sole person responsible for whether or not America would go to war, but a recession was clearly not something he had considered previously. “Is there any good news?”
The Secretary of State sighed. “Eventually. The UN wants to investigate the incident. The European Union, China, Japan, and most other allies are already issuing proclamations of neutrality in any future conflict that might arise. Except for one.”
Zero knew it well before Kemmerer even said it.
“Russia.” The Secretary of State fidgeted slightly in his seat. “It seems their own trade agreements with Iran have been deteriorating. They’re ready to lend their support if we need it.”
“President Ivanov has already pledged resources to our cause if we decided that it was in our best interests,” said Holmes.
“War,” the president murmured. “Might as well call it what it is. If war is in our best interests.”
Zero glanced over at Pierson. The president’s complexion had taken on a sallow aspect, and he stared blankly at the shiny mahogany tabletop. Despite how adept Zero was at reading expressions and tells, he couldn’t say whether or not Pierson was buying the load of bullshit that his cabinet was selling. But if he had to guess, he would say that Pierson was caving.
“General Rigby,” the president asked, “what’s your position?”
Here it comes. The blatant advice that the US go to war in the Middle East.
“It is my position that we mobilize the Fifth Fleet,” said Rigby, “and show them our full potential in the Persian Gulf. We can call in additional assets from the Gulf of Oman. But…” The general paused and shook his head. “I cannot advise that we initiate a war over this.”
Zero balked. He couldn’t hide his reaction this time; his mouth fell open slightly at the general’s remark. Rigby was playing a part, he was certain, but it was still a curveball.
“I believe that we should hold our position in the Gulf and let the Iranians know that we want to avoid conflict in any way possible,” he continued. “If they act, we react, but until then, we stay the course.”
“With all due respect, General,” said Holmes, “I’m not sure that perspective will sit well with the American people in the wake of recent events.”
“No,” Pierson agreed, “but the general is right. We can’t allow this situation to get blown out of proportion, and I don’t believe the Iranians are going to declare war without further provocation. Mr. Holmes,” he addressed his Chief of Staff, “let’s begin immediately on an address to the nation. We’ll explain that the attack in the Persian Gulf did not result in any loss of American life, and that we will not be goaded into any hostilities.”
“Yes sir, Mr. President.”
Zero’s mind was working a mile a minute. He had fully expected this to be the meeting in which the US declared war on Iran and took swift action to control the Strait of Hormuz…
Oh. The realization struck him like a brick to the head. To declare war now would make their intentions too obvious. He, Agent Zero, had figured it out, and while he knew he was fiercely intelligent—there was that hubris again—others were too. Someone else could assume the same as him. No, these people had years to plan this. They weren’t in any rush.
He had thought, had assumed that this entire meeting was the play. But this was just the rehearsal. Which meant… There is going to be something else. Not an attack. Not a fight.
They already know that Iran is going to close the strait.
Pierson would have no choice but to take action then. They had introduced the concept. Now they had to only bide their time. From there, the escalation would be quick and ruthless—and it would end with the US controlling the strait, since Iran and Oman would no longer be trustworthy or stable.
Pierson stood. “All right, thank you, everyone. I want to be kept fully updated. Until then, dismissed.” As the assembly stood from their seats, Pierson glanced down at his wrinkled shirt and muttered, “I should probably change before the address.”
“Sir.” Zero kept his voice low over the sound of wheels scraping against the floor and papers rustling. “Our meeting?” He still had a chance to stop this. The war hadn’t been declared yet, and the USB stick was still burning a hole in his pocket. “There’s something I need to share with you.”
Pierson scrutinized him for a moment. He opened his mouth to respond, but another voice cut in before he could.
“Agent Steele.” The Director of National Intelligence, John Hillis, was in his mid-sixties. The skin beneath his chin hung in jowls but his eyes were as sharp and observant as a bird of prey. “Director Mullen didn’t tell me you would be here. You’re not thinking of leaving the agency for a cushy security job, are you?” Hillis chuckled lightly.
Director Mullen doesn’t know I’m here. But he will now. Zero’s cover would be blown. He had no doubt that Hillis would report this to Mullen, and the CIA would soon know that Agent Zero was dodging their calls while rubbing shoulders with the president.
“What is it you need to share with me, Zero?” Pierson asked.
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He definitely noticed the tiny, almost imperceptible raise in Hillis’s eyebrow. “Whatever it is, protocol would dictate that you bring it to your superiors, would it not?” Hillis smiled, though his eyes did not. “Allow them to decide whether or not it should go up the chain?”
“Ordinarily, yes.” Zero locked eyes with Hillis and returned the joyless smile. “But you know how these sensitive reports can be. Sometimes it requires a firsthand account, sir.”
Pierson glanced between the two men. He seemed to at least understand that something was going on, some mutual understanding was passing between them, though he didn’t know what.
“You have five minutes, Zero.” Pierson nodded to the two Secret Service men posted at the door. “Oval Office.”
“Sir,” said Hillis, stepping forward, “perhaps I should join you. Anything the CIA might have to share is of particular interest to me.”
A knot formed in Zero’s stomach. This wasn’t a situation that he could fight or shoot his way out of. If he denied the DNI, they would certainly know something was up and that Zero had information—which many of them would likely already be assuming by virtue of his presence in the Situation Room. He couldn’t allow John Hillis to be present when he presented what was on the USB drive to the president.
But he didn’t have to. As he stood there trying to think of some excuse to keep Hillis out of the way, a female voice piped up from the now-open double doors of the Situation Room.
“Director Hillis?” It was Emilia Sanders, the brunette aide. “You’re needed right away on line three.”
Hillis frowned. “It’s going to have to wait—”
“It’s your wife,” Sanders pressed. “She said it’s urgent.”
The DNI gritted his teeth. Then he whisked past them without another word.
Zero was keenly away of how fortuitous—and how equally unlikely—it was that Hillis would be called away in the moment he needed to be rid of him.
Stranger still was that as the director left the Situation Room, Zero could have sworn that the woman, Sanders, gave a tiny nod in his direction.
Definitely strange, he thought. It was just one more thing to figure out, right behind who had posed as his wife and stolen his documents, who had sent the Division members after him, and how to stop an international crisis from unfolding.
CHAPTER NINE
“Five minutes, Zero.” President Pierson closed the doors to the Oval Office with the two of them once again alone inside it. “That’s all I can afford under the circumstances. You understand.”
“Of course, sir.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the USB stick. Then he gestured to the laptop on the president’s desk. “May I use that?”
Pierson nodded. Zero rounded the desk and powered up the computer. He wondered if it was being monitored. Doesn’t matter much now, he thought. What was important was that Pierson heard what he had stowed on the small black drive.
“I haven’t had a drink in six months,” the president mused quietly.
“That so?” Zero pushed the drive into the USB port.
“Mm-hmm. Had some problems with the stuff in my youth. I learned moderation, then cut it out altogether. But I’ll be damned if I’m not having one tonight.”
There was a knock at the door of the Oval Office. Emilia Sanders appeared once again, holding a coat hanger on which hung a dark suit jacket and a fresh red tie. “Sir,” was all she said as she draped the outfit over an armchair.
Despite Zero’s attempt to make eye contact with her, she was gone just as quickly as she’d appeared, and then the door was closed again.
He looked down at the screen. The laptop was fairly new and the USB drive was two years old. The computer had to download the drivers before it could open any files. He resisted the urge to curse aloud and instead bit his lip.
Pierson tugged off his tie and plucked up the new one. He gestured toward a portrait hanging on the wall to the right of the desk and beside the wide window with golden curtains. “What do you think he’d make of all this?”
Zero looked up at the portrait. “Nothing good.” The drivers were still downloading. Hurry up. “George Washington was an isolationist. Did you know that?”
Pierson smirked a little and furrowed his brow. “I didn’t.”
“He was. After the Revolution, he disbanded the Continental Army. Didn’t think the country needed one. He was quite vocal about never going through that again—a war like that. An expenditure of American lives, let alone resources.” He felt like he was in a lecture hall again, speaking casually to a group of grad students. It felt so natural that he doubted his earlier thought, about Reid Lawson being his alter ego and Zero being his reality. This felt just as real. “He wanted nothing to do with foreign affairs, world wars, any of that. The whole Second Amendment thing that gets everyone all fired up? That was pretty much to avoid ever needing an army, you know.”
Pierson chuckled. “You’re talking to a Republican president. Try explaining that to my voters.”
Zero grinned. “My point is that Washington wouldn’t be very pleased with what we’ve done with his country for the last two hundred years or so.”
Finally. A popup window appeared and told him that the device was ready to be used. He double-clicked the drive and opened it. There were only a handful of files on it, audio clips, and each was only thirty seconds long.
Before opening the first file, he said, “Washington dreamed of an America that was self-sustaining. That relied only on itself.” He paused for a moment. “You know what the opposite of an isolationist is, right?”
“It’s been a while since ninth grade history,” Pierson admitted, “but I believe that would be an imperialist.”
Zero met the president’s gaze. “That’s right. One who wants to build an empire. America is an empire, Mr. President. Make no mistake about it. And there are people who want to expand that definition and what it encompasses, whether you’re aware of it or not. Would you join me over here for a moment, please?”
Pierson frowned at Zero’s sudden change in demeanor, from conversational to somber, and rounded the desk. “What am I looking at?”
“You’re not looking at anything. You’re listening.” He opened the first audio file and played it.
There was a hiss of static, and then a familiar male voice spoke, the audio file picking up mid-sentence. “…Sent the Division to rendezvous with Ivanov.” The voice was unmistakable, at least to Zero’s ears. It belonged to CIA Director James Mullen. “He’s in Afghanistan with an attaché of Russian politicians under the guise of a goodwill mission. You’ll be there to meet him?”
“I’m en route now.” The second voice was gruff, with a slight rasp, and one they had both heard only minutes earlier. It was the Secretary of Defense, General Quentin Rigby. “What about the other thing?”
“I believe we’ve found someone,” said Mullen on the recording. “There’s a Libyan at our Moroccan site, H-6, that could do the job when the time comes. He’s certainly not going anywhere in the meantime.”
“Good,” said Rigby. “And the scapegoats?”
“Nothing definitive yet. We’ve located a potential cell, a group of former Hamas members that have been hiding out in a compound in Iraq. They’re inactive—for now. Intelligence shows they’re led by an old man called bin Mohammad. It wouldn’t be difficult to create a situation—” The recording cut off there, after thirty seconds.
Just over two years earlier, Zero had managed to slip a piece of tech from Bixby’s lab that he used to tap Mullen’s cell phone and record the call. However, the device could only be active for thirty seconds at a time; any longer than that and CIA security would be aware that there was a track on it.
He had logged hours and hours of conversation, at thirty seconds a clip, waiting for something pertinent to his case to be revealed. It had taken a long time, and yielded very few results—only two, in fact.
Pierson shook his head slightly. “I don’t un
derstand.”
“You know those voices,” Zero said. “That was CIA Director Mullen speaking to General Rigby.” He looked Pierson right in the eye and kept his tone low. “Mr. President, I’m going to lay it right out for you. Two years ago, I discovered the makings of a plot created by people in your administration. Their plan was to manufacture a war between the United States and the Middle East, with the goal of gaining control of the Strait of Hormuz and, from there, other key oil-producing regions. Their intention is to make America into a larger empire. To solidify our standing as the world’s premier superpower. To keep those in power in their seats, and for the rich to get richer. This is not about patriotism. This is not about showing strength or saving lives. This is about control. Two years ago, I thought I had time to investigate, to find evidence. But that time is up. What we’re seeing now is the beginning. And they are expecting you to bend.”
Pierson let out a ragged sigh. “Zero,” he said quietly, “this is an extremely grave and sensitive accusation you’re making.”
“I’m aware, sir, but I’m making it nonetheless. The Brotherhood attack was orchestrated; bin Mohammad’s death was somehow arranged, and Awad bin Saddam was goaded into believing that the plan was his own. But it wasn’t. The Libyan arms dealer that supplied them with the submarine drones was from the CIA black site, H-6. The drones themselves were CIA tech. Given time, I could confirm all of this—”
“But you don’t have time,” Pierson concluded. “Is this all you have? Audio clips of vague conversation?”
Zero gritted his teeth. “I had documents. I was building a case. But they were stolen from me.”
“So you have nothing more to go on…”
“Except the truth,” he said forcefully. “Do you really believe that an Iranian ship fired on our own within hours of the change of ROE? Do you think it’s a coincidence that this came in the direct wake of an attack on American soil, while the media is shoehorning Muslims everywhere, vilifying them?”
Pierson rubbed his forehead. “Your superiors don’t know that you’re here, do they?”
