by Jack Mars
He couldn’t help but shake his head and smile a little at the thought that his old friend was not only still alive, but had been helping him from the shadows as he had. But the smile evaporated as he considered what sort of life Alan had been living for the past two years.
Probably the same kind of life that I’ll be forced to live if I survive this, he thought glumly. He didn’t know what he would do, or worse, what the girls would do. What sort of college prospects would they have being the daughters of someone identified by the federal government as a terrorist? And Maya, she had her heart set on becoming a CIA agent herself.
He secretly hoped that her desire might sour after this experience. That was not the life that he wanted for her.
As he neared the garage, he saw that the lights were off and the “closed” sign was displayed in the window. Still he approached the glass door to the office and gave the handle a tug. It opened easily.
No such thing as too cautious, he reminded himself as he pulled the LC9 from his pocket and swung into the dim space.
He lowered it almost immediately. “I figured it would be you,” he said to the man sitting behind the steel desk.
“And you still pulled a gun,” Watson mused.
“You never know. Are you alone?”
A thud sounded directly overhead in response. Zero crouched and instinctively pointed the gun toward the ceiling. “Someone’s on the roof.”
“I know.” Watson was not a man who smiled often, but seeing Zero react as if he was going to shoot at someone through the ceiling made him smirk. “You made a request, remember? Go ahead. I’ll wait for Strickland.”
“We have a situation, Watson—”
“We always have a situation,” Watson interrupted. “This is important. And it’s the only thing you can do at the moment.”
He was right; they had to wait for Strickland to arrive and then form a plan. He pushed open the back door of the office and found a steel security ladder bolted to the back of the building. As he reached the roof, he peered over the top of it and saw an older man, sweating a bit under the sun in a gray button-down. His hair was graying and he wore thick horn-rimmed glasses on his nose as he knelt beside a small satellite dish mounted on a tripod. Near him was a laptop computer set up atop a black footlocker, and beside that an open case that appeared to be some sort of advanced communication array.
The memories of their relationship flooded Zero’s brain. They didn’t appear suddenly as they had before, based on some visual or auditory trigger; they felt as if they had always been there, just now surfacing like a breaching whale. The eccentric CIA engineer, Bixby, had been with the agency longer than anyone he knew, even longer than Zero had been. On nearly every op it was Bixby who outfitted him with weapons and gear. They had more than a rapport; they had a friendship that Zero had been neglecting in the time before his memory had fully returned. Yet Bixby had never faltered.
They also had a customary greeting. So as Zero climbed up onto the roof behind the engineer, he said, “A guy walks into a psychiatrist’s office wearing nothing but Saran wrap.”
Bixby grinned without looking up. “And the doctor says, ‘I can clearly see you’re nuts.’ Come on, Zero. You’ve told me that one before.”
“I didn’t exactly have time to come up with fresh material.”
Bixby stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. “It’s good to see you. It’s been too long.”
“I just saw you last week,” Zero reminded him. Bixby said nothing in return, but there was a curious look in his eye that Zero couldn’t quite read. Can he tell? Does he know I’m back? But if he did, he wasn’t saying. “I don’t want you mixed up in this.”
“Too late,” Bixby said with a shrug. “I already am. I helped you before, and I’ll help you again.”
“You don’t know what we’re up against—”
“And frankly, I don’t want to know,” Bixby admitted. “But I knew something was rotten when the Brotherhood had hold of CIA tech. Then Riker had me outfit those Division guys with weapons. I hear things too, you know. I know they went after you and your kids. I guess you can consider this atonement for my complicity.”
“Well, first you’re going to tell me what this is.” Zero gestured toward the miniature satellite dish and the communication equipment.
“Agent Strickland said you needed a way to contact the Fifth Fleet. This is that.”
Zero blinked in surprise. He hadn’t forgotten about the request; he just didn’t think it would be possible. “We can do that without anyone knowing?”
“Well… in a manner of speaking. There are far too many possibilities for communication to get intercepted, but what we can do with this is interrupt the satellite relay temporarily. I’m talking thirty seconds max. We can get a message to a single vessel, but it’s not going to be a conversation. It’s going to be a one-way transmission, and it has to stay brief.”
“You’re talking about a voicemail,” Zero said plainly. “We’re going to leave the Fifth Fleet a voicemail?”
“No, of course not. That’s a gross oversimplification. We’re going to temporarily disable a specific satellite from anyone’s use but ours and the ship in question, and then we’re going to send them an encoded message that will remit only to the chief communications officer aboard the…” He trailed off at Zero’s flat expression. “Yeah, okay, we’re sending them a voicemail. I’m sorry, Zero, but a two-way communication is way too high-risk.”
“It’s okay. This will have to do. Thanks, Bixby.”
“Of course,” said the engineer. “Let me finish setting up here while you think about what you need to say.” He turned back to the communication array. “Who are we going to send this to? I need to nail down precise coordinates.”
Zero knew exactly who they needed to speak to. “The USS Constitution.”
While Bixby honed in on the ship’s position in the Persian Gulf, the small satellite whirring with tiny mechanical adjustments, Zero paced the roof and thought of what he was going to tell them. Whatever it would be, it had to be convincing enough to believe—and moreover, persuasive enough that if he failed to stop the assassination attempt, the crew of the Constitution might heed his warning and avoid engaging further with the IRGC.
It seemed impossible. But he had to try.
“I think we’re set here,” Bixby announced after a minute or so. “Are you ready, Zero?”
“No,” he admitted honestly. “But if you’re ready, we have to do this. We’re running out of time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
The mood on the deck of the USS Constitution was palpably grim, and had been ever since the destruction of the trio of IRGC ships at the hands of the battleship Pennsylvania. Lieutenant Cohen had been offered another four-hour reprieve from the radar, but he turned it down. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, nor would he be able to think about anything other than the blatant lie that Captain Warren had demanded of his officers.
They fired first. The United States was half a world away; the news they received from the Persian Gulf was the news that their Navy provided them. And while that was normally the truth, it was now shockingly apparent that it could be whatever the captain and those above him deemed it should be.
Beside him at the communications array, Lieutenant Davis was equally silent, his expression reading as if he too was thinking the same. Cohen wanted to say something, to talk about it, but he didn’t dare. Although Captain Warren had spent much of the time since away from the bridge, the XO was never far. And even the suggestion that the captain had been less than honest could be considered treasonous.
Instead Cohen stared at the array and watched the blips that represented the IRGC blockade of the Strait of Hormuz. They had been maintaining their position for hours, waiting as more of the Fifth Fleet sailed in from further corners of the gulf and Bahrain. Even the partially assembled fleet was a formidable showing, dozens of destroyers, battleships, and aircraft carriers at the ready, org
anized in staggered rows on the sea. There was easily enough firepower among them to obliterate Iran’s blockade—which was exactly what Cohen feared might come next.
He thought of his girlfriend back home in Pensacola, his would-be fiancée if he ever made it home. But every indication told him it was going to be war.
“Cohen.” He perked up suddenly at the sound of his name. Lieutenant Davis had his thick headphones over his ears and a faraway look in his eye, as if he was listening to something intently. He glanced quickly around the bridge to make sure no one else was looking their way, and then waved him over.
Cohen scooted the short distance to him. “What is it?”
“Listen to this,” Davis said quietly, passing him the headphones, “and tell me if it’s as crazy as it sounds.”
Puzzled, Cohen fit the headset over his ears as Davis leaned forward and pressed a playback button on the console in front of him. A message began playing; a man’s voice came through, speaking rapidly but clearly, low but urgently.
“This message is for the chief communications officer aboard the USS Constitution,” the message began. “My name is Agent Kent Steele with the Central Intelligence Agency. I have been disavowed, labeled a terrorist, and declared dead for uncovering a conspiracy that permeates the highest levels of the federal government. The plot is to instigate a war between Iran and the US in order for us to seize control of the Strait of Hormuz. I don’t have time to go into the details of this plot; I am sending this message to you because you have already borne witness to the events that may very well lead to war. I am going to try to stop this. But if I fail, you will soon receive orders to advance on the strait and engage with the IRGC. I implore you: disobey. Rebel. Do whatever is necessary to avoid this conflict. The future of not only the country, but of the state of the world, may fall into your hands. Please—do the right thing.”
The transmission ended as abruptly as it began. Cohen felt a shiver run down his spine, particularly at this alleged agent’s insistence that they rebel. “Mutiny” was not a term that was ever uttered aboard a naval ship, not even in jest; the punishment for it would be a court-martial, but the inevitable result would most likely be a lifetime in the walls of a godforsaken military prison like Leavenworth.
He was still processing the eerie message when he realized that Davis was staring at him expectantly. “Well?” he asked quietly.
“I think…” Lieutenant Cohen sighed. “I think that if I heard this yesterday, I would have thought it was crazy. But today is a very different matter.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Apparently while Cohen had been dumbfounded, Davis had been thinking. “Look, we’ve all heard about this kind of thing from guys in Afghanistan and Iraq, right? Orders to fire on civilian populations, missiles launched on villages… Almost no one talks about it under threat of court-martial, and if they do the government squashes it fast. We’ve got an opportunity here to stop this before it starts, instead of trying to convince people after the fact.”
“Davis,” Cohen said quietly, “what you’re talking about is—”
“I know,” he said quickly. “But you were there last night. You saw it and heard it. I’m not going to stand by idly, so you’re going to have to make a choice. Either report me for talking about it, or grow a pair of balls and help me.”
Cohen hesitated. Davis, it seemed, had a stronger spine than he did, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “What do you suggest?” he asked.
“I can encrypt this message and get it out to a few people we trust,” Davis told him. “Kennedy on the Pennsylvania. Schriner on the Intrepid. Guzman on the Lincoln. They’ve all heard what we’ve heard, and some have even seen what we’ve seen. We disseminate this carefully, and…”
“And then what?” Cohen interjected. “Mutiny?”
“Sorry, Lieutenant Cohen.” A deep voice startled them both. “Can you repeat that?” The XO stood only a few paces behind them. They had been so engulfed in the recording and their conversation that they hadn’t noticed him approaching. Cohen felt a nauseating knot of panic bubble in his stomach. Executive Officer Nathan was second in command of the USS Constitution behind Captain Warren. He was a career man, eighteen years in the Navy and most of those spent on the seas. He folded thick arms over a broad chest and glared down at the both of them. “I can’t possibly have heard what I think I just heard. So by all means, Lieutenants, set me straight.”
Cohen glanced over at Davis nervously. But he did not return his pleading gaze. Instead Davis set his headphones down on the console and stood, facing the XO as straight and tall as he could—which was at least four inches shorter than the commanding officer that towered over him. Still, he did not falter or shrink as he spoke.
“Sir, I have received an encoded transmission from a man claiming to be a CIA agent that briefly details a conspiracy to use the Fifth Fleet as pawns to instigate a war with Iran for control of the strait. In conjunction with what we witnessed yesterday, I believe that Captain Warren’s command is compromised, and that this may go up the chain as far as Admiral Buchanan. I do not intend to take any part in this, and in fact plan to do whatever I can to stop it.”
Cohen’s heart felt as if it stopped at Davis’s candor. The XO glared down, his eyes narrowing. “And this message,” he said slowly. “It was sent only to you?”
“I believe so,” Davis told him. “It was addressed to me.”
Nathan nodded once, slowly. “As you were, then.”
Davis blinked rapidly. Cohen didn’t realize it, but his jaw dropped open slightly.
“Sir?” he said.
“I’ve suspected that Warren’s command was in question,” he told them, his voice low. “We all know what the strait represents to both the US and the world. It’s been my unfortunate experience that people in power tend to believe they can do as they please because they are in power. It seems that this now applies to our captain. But this is my Navy, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose a single soul so that some men on the Hill can stay in their seats. So you do what you intend to do, Davis—carefully, and quietly. I’ll deal with Captain Warren.”
“Yes sir,” Davis breathed.
“And Cohen,” the XO remarked. “Blink or something. You look guilty as hell.” With that, he turned and strode off the bridge.
Cohen sucked in a long breath, as if he’d forgotten how to inhale for the last minute or so. “This is really happening,” he said.
“It sure is.” Davis took a seat at his console. “So are you going to help me, or what?”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Sara stood in the backyard of the rural Nebraska cabin, hugging her elbows. There was a chill in the morning air, but it was still better than being stuck inside. She was feeling a bit stir-crazy.
To call it a “backyard” was a tremendous understatement. Despite having houses within view on either side, it looked like the property stretched into the wilderness behind it, down a gently sloping hill dotted with trees that afforded her an admittedly pretty view.
She had only slept a few hours the night before. When she woke, Maya was still asleep and Mitch was gone. He’d left a note saying that he’d run out for supplies, food, and changes of clothes and toiletries. He promised he’d be back soon.
Sara meandered a short distance into the trees. The grass badly needed to be cut and the morning dew soaked the toes of her sneakers. She had tried to find something, anything, to do in the small cabin, but quickly grew bored and decided to venture outdoors. She didn’t see the harm. No one “out there” knew where they were—“out there” being anywhere at all in the developed world beyond the small cabin and yard.
She stepped carefully through the grass, wondering if she should be concerned about ticks, when she saw a flash of light in her periphery. She glanced up quickly, just in time to see a shape jump behind a tree.
Sara froze. In that instant her brain convinced her that the flash of light was the sunlight glint from a rifle scope. It’s those
men from the Division. Somehow they found us.
Then she took a deep breath and reminded herself that no one knew they were here. No one followed them.
“Hey!” she said loudly, mustering what she thought was her most authoritative voice. “Who’s there? I saw you. Come on out, slowly.”
She held her breath as the figure stepped out from behind the tree, and then she released it in a sigh of relief to see that it was not the Division.
It was a boy.
He looked like he was around her age, with brown hair cut in a sweep across his forehead. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt and jeans with a tear across one knee. He was tall, at least five inches taller than her, and in his right hand he held a smartphone.
“Who are you?” Sara demanded.
The boy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I live over there.”
“Yeah?” She folded her arms defiantly. “Well, you’re trespassing.”
The boy frowned. “Nuh-uh. Your yard ended back there. Technically, you’re trespassing.”
Sara threw a glance behind her, her shoulders slumping. “Oh.” Then she turned back and bristled again. “Did you just take a picture of me?”
“No.”
“I saw a flash.”
The boy hesitated. “What’s your name?”
The question took her off guard. “Um… Sam. Samantha. But people call me Sam.” She certainly couldn’t give her real name, not when they were supposed to be hiding. “What’s yours?”
“Ethan.” He gestured toward the cabin. “Did your family just move in there?”
“Uh, yeah,” Sara told him. “Me, my sister, and my dad.”
“No one’s lived there for years,” Ethan said. “The place must be a dump.”
“We won’t be staying long.”
Ethan kicked at a rock idly. “That’s too bad.”
Sara felt her face flush with heat. Is he flirting with me? “I should be getting back,” she murmured.
