by Tom Haase
"Most of you know what Matt did to stop the terrorists in Saudi Arabia a couple of weeks ago," the president said, "and I want him to follow up on all leads concerning this Yuri. We know he’s the maker of the atomic weapons used over there and is therefore extremely dangerous. We have no information on any existing weapons and I hope he doesn’t have one now. We don’t think he does, but at present I’m not so sure. Matt has the experience dealing with this cell of terrorists. I want him to go after this guy, wherever he is." Brennan patted Matt on the shoulder. "Stop him, Matt."
"Mr. President, is the national alert level to be red?" asked the SecDef.
"Eduardo, what's homeland’s recommendation?" the president said.
"I think we can keep the current orange and not increase it. The public tires of the vicissitudes shown by these changes without ever seeing any results, even though they don’t realize that we’ve thwarted many terrorist attempts. We face what’s known as the fallacy of being right. We’re right to raise the alert because we get good intel that something is going to happen, and then we interdict or terminate the fanatics and consequently nothing happens. We were right, but all they see is that nothing happened after the security level was heightened—so we were wrong—a cry of wolf with nothing to back it up."
The deputy director of the FBI, a strikingly handsome man in his early forties, sitting in for the ailing director, asked, "Aren’t we being too careful here? The public will know from the media there are terrorists actively hitting us on our soil, and the threat is real. No longer is it imaginary. They soon forgot 9/11, but these attacks today will cause panic in some people. To raise the alert level would seem prudent to show the public we are reacting in some manner and to keep people on alert for suspicious activity."
"I agree," the SecDef said.
Matt watched the president point to the secretary of Homeland Security with his finger in a gesture of "make it happen."
"I want everyone to put maximum effort into learning why these events took place today and who’s responsible for them," concluded the president. As he passed Matt on the way out he placed his hand on Matt’s elbow, signaling for him to follow.
In a small room off the main conference room, the president gestured for Matt to enter. He waved at General Bergermeyer, the head of the DIA covert operations directorate and Admiral Kidd the director of the NSA, to join him. The light blue walls held photos of scenes around the District of Columbia: the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, and tombstone of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery. In the center of the room stood a round wood table surrounded by six chairs.
"I noticed you didn’t mention that someone wounded you today," President Brennan said.
"It’s nothing serious."
General Mary Jean Bergermeyer, United States Army, in her uniform, looked like a model instead of a general with her beautiful red hair and slim-toned body. She gazed with obvious anxiety at Matt. "Were you hit?"
"A little scratch," he said, pointing to his right shoulder.
"I didn’t know you Army types had so much modesty," said Admiral Kidd with a smile. Matt gave the admiral a half grin and glanced momentarily at the floor.
"Just wanted to see y’all for a few minutes. I don’t know if this Yuri fellow is anywhere in our country or, for that matter, where he is. He did, however, set off an atomic weapon once before. I have to assume he might have another one. I know assumptions are bad, but I sure as hell hope he doesn’t. Matt has dealt with that particular cell of terrorists before. So . . .," The president scratched his head and roughed up his hair. He continued in a slower cadence, "That’s why I want you going after that man. The whole government is now going to focus on what has happened today, trying to make sense of these attacks, and what might happen in the near future. I want you to concentrate on that one man."
"Mr. President," Matt said, "last month that bastard killed a member of my team, plus the men in the helicopter. I lost a good man to that cell of terrorists. You bet I want him, and I’ll do everything and go anywhere to get him."
The president answered, "I understand your motivation and your drive to pay them back for what happened to you on 9/11. I know it’s personal, but I have seen you perform and I’m not worried about emotions getting in your way. Mary Jean, you take care of the paperwork for the contract for Matt to do this."
"I’ll get on my people to see if we can use the notebook computer Matt found during that operation in Saudi to try to trace this Yuri," Admiral Kidd said.
"Good." The president started toward the door.
"Matt, I’ll come to visit you tomorrow to get a full debriefing," General Bergermeyer said, "but now you need to get some rest. Take care of that wound."
"Okay," the president said, stopping at the doorway, “you three, plus Bridget, make up my special operations team. Let’s find this Yuri. I’ll keep a fire under everyone else to get those who attacked us today and to try to find out how they did it in such a coordinated manner. Let’s get to work."
Mary Jean Bergermeyer stopped the president before everyone started to walk out. "Mr. President, I wonder if there’s more to it. All the targets were military, except where Matt and Bridget were. That strikes me as strange. I think I’ll take a closer look at that."
"Do it," said the president.
5
Next Morning — Leesburg, Virginia
"Where in the hell do these files go?" Julia Morrison asked putting her hands on her hips. She and Matt stood in the new office space of the company Matt and Bridget formed.
"Up yours, squawk," responded Gandalf, a foul-mouthed seven-year-old scarlet macaw parrot.
"Stop that," Julia ordered.
Bridget’s cat sat close to where Gandalf perched, staring at the bird.
"Stop fucking cat, squawk, squawk." With its partly clipped wings, the bird could fly just enough to get away from the cat, but he had to move fast. A week ago, Julia had called Bridget’s cat, Rambo, "a fucking cat." The bird had heard her.
"I never had it this bad when I was a ‘working girl.’” Julia put air quotes on the last words. “Whatever possessed me to get that bird?" she asked herself out loud. She always projected an award-winning smile on her rather striking face, and dressed to accentuate her buxomness with an open-collar blue shirt unbuttoned too far down, with the sleeves rolled up, and jeans. Her top, soaked with sweat from bending and lifting to put the few files from two boxes into a filing cabinet, clung to her contours. As she bent over the white roots betrayed her brown hair. In reality, there were few folders since the office was only getting started, but Julia, a tad bit out of shape, huffed and puffed. No, correct that, Matt thought, she was way out of shape.
Matt smiled and chugged his Diet Coke. His eyes scanned the new space. Not exactly plush. The desks were all IKEA products, with computer chairs from Staples. Their location occupied the second floor of a small complex with a single glass entry door that opened outward. The walls waited for the hanging of the pictures stacked on the floor beneath the projected points of display. On each desk sat the most expensive items in the office, twenty-four-inch Apple iMac computers. There were no cables as the wireless Apple Airport system connected them all together and to the laser printer at the back of the office, next to the filing cabinet, the focus of Julia’s attention.
Matt believed that Julia’s question had been rhetorical, but he responded, "You never had it so good as a working girl, did you?"
"Listen here, young man. I worked as what some might call a lady of the evening, many years ago in Fayetteville. You know, the home of the 82nd Airborne Division. Me, I got lucky, met me a man and we were happily married for many years before he died in Afghanistan. I’ve been straight for years. So, you watch your mouth, now, you hear?"
"No offense meant. My wife’s sister recommended you to be our secretary. You seem to have become fast friends after you moved in near her. She probably knows all about you and besides I trust her judgment, since she ke
eps my daughter. Besides, I hear you get along with my Laura."
"Your daughter looks just like your wife. I’ve seen her picture. That child adores you. It must have been hard for you after her mother perished on 9/11."
Matt stepped away from her since he didn’t want to go there. Why had she said that? The memory was not as intense now, but it was still part of him.
* * *
In 2001, Lieutenant Matt Higgins and his wife, Susan, had traveled to Washington on vacation. It was to be the first real vacation they had taken in two years. Alone and with no one to interrupt them, they intended to spend the week in the nation’s capital to see all the sights. Matt took Susan to the Pentagon to see his old Professor of Military Science, Colonel John Forsman. After a short visit to his office, the colonel had offered to take Matt to see some of the classified areas that concerned Army matters. He’d suggested that the petite, blond-haired Susan would find it boring to listen to all the military jargon and topics, and she might like to view the artwork in the outer ring of the Pentagon instead of going with them. They would join her in about fifteen minutes. Matt gave Susan a hug and a light kiss, and she departed.
Susan strolled the halls of the outer ring, viewing the military artwork that depicted various scenes from the far-flung battlefields the American soldier had fought and died on. She sauntered through the halls on the east part of the outer ring of the Pentagon when her cell phone rang. She saw the call came from Matt.
"Hi, hon, sorry we ran over on time. The colonel is showing me some interesting places. Could you meet me at the east exit, say at nine forty-five? We’ll be there in a few minutes, and then we can go on over to the Smithsonian."
"Don’t worry, I’ll meander over to the exit now. I’ll be there by the time you are," Susan said. She started walking toward the exit to meet him. It was 9:42 in the morning.
At that moment, American Airlines flight 77, a Boeing 757, smashed into the Pentagon less than twenty feet from where she stood. Susan died instantly in the catastrophic explosion that engulfed the corridor on the outer ring of the building on September 11, 2001.
Matt walked with Colonel Forsman as they made their way through the long corridors toward the east exit. They were two corridors away when the explosion shook the building. Matt broke into a run toward the exit where Susan had planned to meet him. He reached the end of the corridor, turned to his right into the outer ring of the Pentagon, and continued to plow ahead. The horrific scene filled his vision. There he took in all the devastation, smoke, debris, and smell of jet fuel, as well as the roar of the inferno of the flames and the blistering heat.
For a seemingly endless time, but in reality only a few seconds, Matt was dazed, his senses numbed, unable to think or move. He needed to find Susan. At last, getting hold of himself, he ran forward, looking for her, calling her name, and stumbling as far into the devastation as he could. There was no sign of her. He continued his desperate search, but the needs of others were overwhelming, many requiring immediate help. He led some burn victims to the Emergency Medical Aid station. The Pentagon medical unit had set it up in record time. Then he returned to the area to guide other injured men and women, both civilian and military, to the aid station.
Daylight had all but disappeared in the western sky when Matt went back to the hotel room where he and Susan had spent the previous night. The realization that he would never see her again overwhelmed him as he opened the door of their room. He sat on the bed, trying to control his misery and his anger. His head dropped, and he lay facedown. Despite the soft elevator music floating through the room from a preprogrammed station, Matt's head heard over and over the explosive, horrific crash of the 757 as it thundered into the Pentagon.
The sound ricocheted endlessly through his entire being, decimating all feeling. If only he had not delayed. If only he had met with her a few minutes earlier. Maybe. How could he tell their daughter, Laura? She was staying with her aunt so he and Susan could take a vacation alone. No answer came. Hatred for the terrorists built inside his soul. How could God allow this to happen to him? The full impact of his loss finally hit him as he released some of the self-control that sustained him all day. He started sobbing uncontrollably.
* * *
Bridget pushed open the front door of the office, a buzzer announcing her entry. "Good morning, all. You too, Gandalf."
That jolted Matt back to the here and now. He nodded to Bridget, and Julia gave her a bright smile. Bridget wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a light yellow T-shirt sporting a stenciled slogan on the back: "If you can read this, the bastard fell off." Her bright red hair, pulled back and twisted into a bun, allowed the clean beauty of her skin to glow in the light. Matt noticed, not for the first time, that she displayed a sensual attractiveness. They’d worked together on their last operation in the Army, but that had entailed military duty, and personal feelings had remained out of his mind. They’d had a mission—they’d focused only on that. Now, he wasn’t sure how, but somehow, something had changed.
Julia said, "Hey, guys, time for a break. I’ve been at this too long, and besides, I’m almost finished setting up the files. Matt, you want another Coke?" she said, trying to get him to focus on her instead of Bridget.
"Oh . . . yeah."
"Bridget, you?" Julia asked as she headed for the small refrigerator they had installed against the back wall behind a small screen. It kept the area from direct view of anyone coming into the office. It also hid the coffeemaker and assorted paraphernalia. Bridget nodded.
"Here you guys are," Julia said. She handed each a Diet Coke. "Since I’ve only been here for two days, could you take time to indulge me and take the time to tell me how you started this business, or will you have to kill me if you do?"
"We would have to," Bridget said with a smile.
She then related the story of how, at the end of their last assignment, they went to meet the president. They had been granted this meeting as a result of their actions in preventing a disastrous detonation of an atomic bomb in a Saudi Arabian city. She didn’t mention the one that detonated, as that event remained highly classified. They had thought all the terrorists had died, but at the White House the president told them at least one, a Russian named Yuri, had escaped. He might also have a surviving partner from the terrorist cell.
The president relieved them of their military duties and directed them to set up a company that dealt in security operations. He wanted them to be at his personal beck and call for assignments.
Matt added that he remembered the president saying, "You will resign as officers, be removed from all active duty lists, and will appear as if you are no longer in the service.” He’d also informed them their pay and privileges would continue to accrue, and any promotions would be on time. They would only report to the two officers then in the room, or to him. The offer would be valid as long as Brennan remained president, and it might carry over to his successor depending on the new president’s wishes.
Bridget looked at Matt for him to continue the story. Matt took a big gulp from his diet coke, waited, and took another one before he decided to continue.
"Get set up," the president had said, "and perform as any other private organization." He went on to tell them to do business as that entity unless they received a contract from one of them to carry out a mission. Then they’d have all the government’s equipment, technology, and communications required for the new venture at their disposal. For Matt and Bridget this offer provided the best of both worlds—they continued to serve their country while engaging in their specialty fields as private citizens. Bridget had promised to work until the end of her enlistment, as she wanted to attend college to get an archeology degree.
Matt finished giving Julia this short, sanitized version of the events leading to their setting up the office. He told her the NSA had conducted a security check on her but performed no detailed background investigation, and that she had received an interim secret security clearance. Matt and Bridget had
organized and incorporated their company in the state of Virginia using the name SPAT, Inc. that they’d devised from Security, Protection, and Training. Their new organization assessed physical security for companies as well as selling and installing electronic security measures.
"So we do super-secret tasks for the president?" Julia surmised. "I thought your sister-in-law told me you guys didn’t do anything like that."
"This is serious, Matt said. "Never tell anyone, or even let anyone guess that."
"You got it," Julia said. "At least we’re up and running, and I’m glad to be here. Mums the word."
"Not only have we had our first contract, but we just got our first paycheck from our visit to Texas," Matt replied.
"You mean I might get paid," Julia said. She went over and resumed her work, plopping another file into the cabinet. She picked up the empty cardboard box from the floor and went out the back steps down to the trash dumpster.
"Bridget, something’s bothering me. Mary Jean hinted at it too. Why did those guys hit that plant at the exact time we were there when every other assault was against a military target? They knew we were there. I think there’s something rotten somewhere."
"What are you saying?" Bridget queried.
"There has to be a specific reason we were there when the attack occurred. Let’s say for a moment the plant was not the objective, as we’ve been thinking." Matt stopped for a second as he thought through the events.
“Do you suppose we were the targets?” Bridget said.
6
Container Ship — Yemen Islamic Republic
Yuri grabbed Basam by the arm, moving him along to make sure they arrived on time at the pier. They needed to catch the last shuttle to the container ship. He assured Basam that he had already transferred the money the captain had demanded for their passage using his newly acquired computer. It required only a few keystrokes once he’d accessed his ten-million-dollar account. That was sum he’d received for the weapons he’d assembled for Basam’s brother.
