by Jack Mars
The man seemed too stunned for words. A slight whimper escaped his lips as he shook his head, no.
“I need a cell phone. Where is it?”
The man pointed through the doorway to the living room, where the television set flickered.
Zero tucked the gun back into his jeans, and then plucked up the man’s iPhone from the coffee table in the adjacent room. It was a few years old with a small crack in the upper right corner. “Is there a screen lock on this?”
The man shook his head again, not daring to move from his spot on the floor.
“Good. I’m taking this.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the old man had been watching a rerun of Cheers. “Here’s what I want you to do. You’re going to sit there, on the sofa, and not make a move until this episode is over, got it? Then you can get up. Call the police. Whatever you feel you need to do. But if I hear sirens in the next few minutes, I’m going to come back here and shoot you. Do you understand?”
The man’s head bobbed up and down quickly.
“Good. Stay put.” Zero backed out of the living room, ran out the open front door, and crossed the front yard back to the road. He almost didn’t see the car coming until he was awash in its headlights, and for a moment he froze there, his one good hand clutching the stolen phone and a useless gun in his pants.
But the car didn’t stop or even slow. It passed him by and curved with the road.
He breathed a sigh of relief and hurried across the road, back into the woods, striding as quickly as he could while still being careful of ruts and stones. He swiped at the iPhone screen and dialed a number he had memorized.
The call was answered in the middle of the third ring, but the person on the other end of the line didn’t speak.
“Todd?” Zero said cautiously.
“Jeez.” Strickland half-scoffed and half-laughed. “I didn’t know who this was. Only three people have this number.” Strickland had given him the number of a burner he’d picked up after learning about the conspiracy, just in case Zero or his girls needed help.
“Where are you right now?”
“I’m at home. What do you need?” Home, for Strickland, was a second-floor apartment in Bethesda, with a doorman, a front desk guard, and (most likely) a CIA wiretap.
“Go outside.”
“I’ll call you right back.” Strickland hung up without questioning it. He knew as well as Zero did that his place was likely bugged. In fact, Strickland had discovered only a few days earlier that he had been injected with a tracking chip, much like Zero’s daughters had, which he had to cut out of his own bicep.
Zero continued on through the woods, trekking parallel to the road. After a minute and a half, the silence was suddenly shattered by the chorus to “Who Let the Dogs Out,” the ringtone of the iPhone.
“Good god,” Zero muttered, startled by the sudden cacophony. He answered it quickly. “Strickland?”
“I’m outside. Walking down the block. You’re dead, by the way.”
Zero paused abruptly. “Come again?”
“Yeah. A voice memo went out just a few minutes before you called. They sent it to the whole Special Activities Division, agents and bosses. They’re saying you were killed in a car crash.”
Zero scoffed. “Well, you know what Twain said.”
“I actually don’t,” Strickland admitted.
“Never mind.” There’s no way the CIA truly believes I’m dead. Without a body, Riker and the others behind the plot would never simply assume. This was a ploy—but to what end, he wasn’t sure. Maybe in the hopes I let my guard down? “I need help, Todd.”
“Tell me where to meet and I’m there.”
“No,” Zero said quickly. “I just need some resources. I’ve got to do this alone—”
“The Lone Ranger act gets old fast, Zero. Let me help you.”
Zero pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure you saw the reports. You know what they’re saying I did. They used my real name. Now they’re claiming I’m dead. If I’m spotted, I will be. If you’re spotted with me, you’ll be dead too. Besides, I’ve got some help.” Maria was out there somewhere, hopefully not in the hands of the Feds or the Division. But he had ditched her phone for fear of Cartwright following them. He had no way to get in touch with her.
He would have to find her the old-fashioned way, and hopefully by then she and Sanders had secured his documents.
“So what do you want me to do?” Strickland asked.
“I need a car. I need a gun. I need a burner. And I need a secure way to get in touch with someone in the IRGC hierarchy.”
Strickland was silent for a long moment. “How do you feel about three out of four?”
“There must be a way,” Zero insisted.
“You want to put a call in to a commanding officer in Iran without the NSA, FBI, or CIA knowing about it? There’s not a way, Zero. You of all people should know that.”
“You’re a former Ranger. You were able to get in touch with Sergeant Flagg in Morocco without being tracked.”
“He’s an American soldier,” Strickland argued. “They’re a little easier to get hold of than a foreign power that has us on their shit list.”
Zero snapped his fingers. “You’re right. What about someone in the Fifth Fleet?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? I’d have to look into it.”
“Please do,” Zero implored. “And carefully. You’ve seen the news. It’s happening now, and I think the people behind this have something else up their sleeve, something big enough to spark the powder keg that the Persian Gulf is about to become. We need to get in touch with someone over there and make them aware of what’s happening.” His ideal situation would be to contact the IRGC directly, attempt to explain what was happening, plead with them to stand down and give him time to resolve the US front. But if they could contact someone high enough in the Fifth Fleet, it might be enough.
“First things first,” Strickland said. “Where are you?”
“Hang on.” Zero brought up the GPS app on the iPhone and read Strickland his coordinates. “That’s where I am right now, but I’m not staying. I need to get clear of the area fast. Division and FBI might be still be poking around.”
“You’re on foot?”
“Yeah. And I’d like to stay that way.” The last thing he needed was a report of a stolen vehicle, another chase, another opportunity for Carver to actually kill him.
“There’s a place about fifteen miles north by northeast of you. It’s a ridge called Indian Head Point. You know it?”
Zero found it on the GPS. “I do now.”
“Head there. By the time you reach it, I’ll have a car and some gear waiting for you.”
“And you won’t be,” Zero said forcefully. “Right? Todd?”
“Right,” Strickland murmured. “I won’t be. But the second you find yourself in over your head, you call me. Got that?”
“I got that. Thanks.” He grimaced with the pain in his injured hand. “And maybe throw a few aspirin in the glove box.”
“I will. Be safe.” Strickland hung up.
Zero checked the location of Indian Head Point again on the phone. It looked like a small park, with a ridge overlooking the Potomac. As long as he stuck close to the shore and followed its northerly direction, he would reach it.
“Fifteen miles,” he grumbled as he started off. His legs already ached. As he walked, he pried the back off the iPhone, pulled out the battery, and hurled it into the trees. Then he slipped the SIM card out of it, snapped it in half, and tossed the two pieces aside.
In the distance, he heard sirens wailing. The old couple had called the police. He picked up his pace, picking his way through the trees. They would report a soaking wet man with a gun and one hand bandaged. But he knew just as well that the CIA would bury the report immediately if they wanted Zero to stay dead.
But why? Declaring him KIA would mean that the Feds and police would call off the search. Carver would still be on
the trail, likely with the Division. Maybe they didn’t want the fallout of any dead cops or agents.
Or maybe they’re trying to draw you out. Trying to lull you into a false sense of security.
Suddenly it dawned on him: They think you’ll try to get to Pierson again. They didn’t know what he had, what evidence of the plot. If that was their plan, it wouldn’t work. There was no way that Zero would get within a thousand yards of Pierson after what they had accused him of, and he knew it.
Besides, it wasn’t Pierson he needed to get close to. Maria and Sanders would get the documents, as they had planned. That’s where he would be next, to rendezvous with them and form a new plan.
And while I’m at it, try to persuade a Fifth Fleet commander to mutiny against the United States government at the behest of a rogue CIA agent.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lieutenant Thomas Cohen hadn’t slept much in the brief span since the USS Constitution had demolished the IRGC ship. He’d been given a four-hour shift rotation, which was usually a welcome reprieve for him to stretch his legs, nap, enjoy some sunshine, or send a few emails back home. But all he could see in his mind’s eye was the explosion, seventy-six lives extinguished as quickly as the small green blip had vanished from radar.
He spent the four hours in his bunk, staring up at white-painted metal of the ceiling, and wondering about everything.
That was the worst part, the not knowing. The crew of the Constitution was only aware of what they were told, and they weren’t being told much. Mere minutes after the destruction of the IRGC vessel, the crew’s Wi-Fi went dark. They could not access any American news sites; they couldn’t ask family back home what was happening. They didn’t know what the media was reporting, what the Iranian government was saying, or what the White House’s stance was.
Cohen understood the brass’s position. The last thing they needed was some careless ensign to send a message back home that mentioned something about their ship’s position or where they were headed. Or worse, post on social media. Even so, it was infuriating being told so little and knowing even less.
He wasn’t the only one who thought so.
“I wish they’d tell us what was happening out there,” Lieutenant Davis muttered from his station only a few feet from Cohen’s array. The air on the bridge felt stuffy, wrought with the tension of a mostly oblivious crew. “What do you think we’re going to find when we get there?”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant.” Cohen couldn’t begin to guess. He knew only that the USS Constitution had been ordered to head directly toward the Strait of Hormuz. As they drew nearer, blips appeared on the radar that, with coordinated effort from Davis and visual confirmation from Gilbert out on the deck, turned out to be other Fifth Fleet ships. They too were heading toward the strait, the first dozen or so that would arrive due to proximity with the remainder of the fleet coming in from either Bahrain or the Gulf of Oman on the other side of the strait.
That too was strange. A convening of the fleet’s divisions without synchronization could only mean that they had all been given the same orders, but independently and from someone higher than the admiral.
And that could only mean that the mobilization of the Fifth Fleet was being ordered and monitored by someone back home—very likely a particularly powerful someone seated at a desk in the White House. Cohen could not say with any certainty, but it felt very much like President Pierson was preparing for war.
Perhaps stranger still was that Cohen had been ordered only to utilize the average marine radar, an apparatus that was roughly the equivalent of the type of radar one might find on a commercial fishing boat. His surface search range was limited to about fifteen nautical miles, though the destroyer’s full radar capabilities could allow them to paint targets from three hundred nautical miles and to an altitude up to thirty-five thousand feet if they desired.
There was only one reason for that. Radar was a “see and be seen” technology. Limiting their range meant limiting the ability of others to see them. In short, the one-hundred-fifty-five-meter-long American destroyer-class warship was attempting to sneak up on the Strait of Hormuz.
“Captain on the bridge!” a voice bellowed sharply.
“As you were.” Captain Warren strode onto the bridge and quickly ordered them down before Cohen could rise from his seat. “Miller, what’s our ETA?”
Petty Officer Miller spoke up from behind Cohen, at a console facing in the opposite direction. “We’re about sixteen miles out from the strait, sir. Maintaining our current speed of approximately twenty-eight knots, we should arrive in about thirty minutes.”
Warren nodded. “Cohen, how are we looking?”
“Nothing on the horizon on short-range surface search, sir.”
“Good. Davis, any transmissions?”
“Only our own, sir,” Lieutenant Davis reported. “The rest of Combined Task Force 152 is trailing us by about three miles, and 158 is incoming from the northwest.”
Warren nodded. “Let’s keep those lines open.” The captain paced to the observation windows of the bridge and peered out at the sunny, cloudless morning, his hands clasped behind his back.
No one spoke for several minutes. Cohen studied Captain Warren, with his back to him, and tried to determine what might be going through the captain’s mind. He didn’t seem troubled as much as he did pensive, but Warren was hardly a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve.
“Sir,” Cohen said suddenly before he could stop himself. “I’d like to inquire about the current state of relations between us and Iran. If I may.”
Petty Officer Miller swiveled in his seat and gawked at Cohen’s audacity. But Davis had his back. “We all would, sir,” he added quickly. “We believe we have a right to know what we may be sailing into.”
Warren looked down at his boots. “You’re not wrong, Lieutenants. You do have a right to know.” He turned to face them. “We’re not at war, if that’s what you’re asking. Not yet. The Iranians are being somewhat perfunctory with their declarations. I wish I had something more to tell you, but the truth is that I can’t say because I don’t know. I do know that wars don’t unfold in a day. Sometimes it can be months, even years, before tensions escalate to that point. We’re already in a tense situation. If the dam breaks, we’re on the front line. But our government will do whatever is in their power to avoid it coming to that, rest assured.”
“Yes sir,” Cohen murmured. It seemed to him that Warren had said a lot of words without saying much at all. The captain was normally a succinct man who gave more direct orders and information.
None of this felt right, but Cohen didn’t have time to question it further.
The radar array beeped a warning as a pair of green blips appeared on the short-range surface scan. “Sir…” he started to say, and then two more appeared. “Captain, we’ve got four—no, six unidentified vessels on radar, about fifteen miles out. Make that eight, and rising.”
The radar was picking up a growing number of targets, arranged in a line to the southeast with a span of approximately a quarter mile between them.
He got on the radio immediately. “Gilbert, do you have visual? Over.”
“Negative,” Gilbert announced. “Horizon is about twelve miles out. It’ll be a few minutes before I can confirm visual. Over.”
Captain Warren rounded the array and peered over Cohen’s shoulder. “IRGC ships?” he asked.
“Can’t confirm yet,” Cohen replied. “But if they are…” He trailed off. “Jesus. Twenty-three of them. It looks like they’re—”
“Blockading the strait,” Captain Warren finished his thought. “Cutting off the Fifth Fleet in the Gulf of Oman from us. Miller, slow us to twenty knots. Davis, get on the horn to the rest of 152 and see if anyone else has confirmation.”
“Should I hail them, sir?” Davis asked.
“No,” Warren said adamantly. “We stay the course and do what we came here to do.”
But what did we come here to
do? Cohen wanted to ask. But he already realized the answer. Mobilizing the Fifth Fleet was an intimidation tactic, and the IRGC was responding in kind. In minutes, there would be American warships facing Iranian warships, within firing range of each other.
God help us if they make a move.
“Sir,” Cohen said as he studied the array, “it looks like three of them are breaking off from the blockade.”
“Headed where?” Warren asked quickly.
“Right for us, sir.”
Gilbert’s voice crackled in the radio. “Got visual on three boats, heading north by northwest… Are they coming straight at us?”
Lieutenant Davis snapped to attention. “Captain, one of them is hailing us.” His eyes unfocused for a moment as he listened to whatever message was coming through his headset in one of the three foreign languages he spoke. “They… oh, god.”
“Davis,” Warren said sternly.
“I’m sorry, sir.” He cleared his throat and announced, “They’re asking us to identify ourselves. They want to know if we’re the ship that fired on theirs yesterday.”
Warren clenched his jaw, deliberating for a moment. “No point in lying or trying to hide. Tell them that Captain Warren of the USS Constitution confirms that we returned fire on a ship that fired upon us first. Tell them to stand down and allow our assets from the Gulf of Oman to pass through the strait, or the consequences will be swift and severe.”
Davis shot Cohen a panicked look. “Sir…”
“That’s an order, Lieutenant,” Warren said sternly.
“Yes sir.” Lieutenant Davis closed his eyes for a moment and then repeated the message in Farsi to the IRGC ship.
On the radar screen, Cohen could see that the trio of Iranian ships was not slowing their approach. Behind the Constitution, six other ships from Combined Task Force 152 were gaining fast. Three were destroyers, and one was the USS Pennsylvania, a dreadnought-class battleship more than twice the size of theirs. The ships fell into a line formation as they made their approach toward the strait and the three IRGC vessels.
