Primary Threat

by Jack Mars

  Moments ago, he had shut it off. He had also shut off the laptop computer that was scrolling Russian translations of intercepted American intelligence. There was very little to learn from either thing.

  The fight on the beach had been a rout. This was not because the defenders had been driven back by the frogmen. It was because an amphibious assault had occurred simultaneously. The defenders had been ill prepared for this, and in the first seconds of the assault, numerous men had been mowed down like so much tall grass. They had been drive into confusion, and by the time they regained their composure and counterattacked, the first frogmen were already on land.

  The remnants of the beach party had fallen back to the oil rig, but it was unlikely they would hold it for long. At this juncture, there couldn’t be more than a dozen men left alive.

  “There was no indication the amphibious assault was coming?” Marmilov said.

  The young man stood tall, his shoulders back, his chest out. Once again, despite being in a small underground office with no windows, he seemed to be staring off into the distance, a thousand meters away.

  “We had no indication,” the man said. “Our source in their White House described only an attack by swimmers. Our own listening stations…”

  Marmilov suddenly pounded the desk with his fist.

  “Do our listening stations ever hear anything worth knowing?”

  The young man said nothing.

  Marmilov cleared his throat. Outbursts of emotion were rare with him. He did not make them lightly. This one came with no forethought at all. His frustration had simply boiled over.

  “It was a failure of intelligence, wouldn’t you say?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Marmilov took another drag from his cigarette. He felt peevish. The Americans would take their island back, and their oil rig perhaps, but he would deny them victory, if he could.

  “Are we in touch with the men in the oil rig?” he said.

  “Difficult.”

  Marmilov shrugged. “Difficult, but still possible?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. But at this point, we don’t know who is alive and who is dead. We don’t know if they are monitoring their communications equipment. We don’t know who is now in command, if anyone. Also, given the collapsing nature of the situation and the widespread monitoring that must be taking place in many quarters, it will now be dangerous to be in contact with them for more than a few seconds.”

  “What do you recommend?” Marmilov said.

  He was aware that time was growing short, and he would like to get directly to the point, before it was too late.

  “Sir, in my opinion, now it is best to speak briefly, in one- or two-word codes, via shortwave radio, broadcast from a location far outside Russia. A word will leave no impression on anyone, except the person designated to receive that word.”

  Marmilov nodded. “Good. Do we have a code word for killing the hostages?”

  “Sir?”

  “I think you heard me perfectly well. The American hostages that remain. I want them dead. Is there a code word for this?”

  “All of them, sir?”

  Marmilov clapped his hands once. The sound was like a gunshot. The young man’s strong body jerked as if Marmilov had suddenly put a bullet through his heart.

  “Yes, all of them.”

  The man hesitated for a long second. Marmilov hoped he wouldn’t have to clap his hands a second time.

  “The code for that is bela rada.”

  Marmilov nodded. “Excellent.”

  An excellent code for an exceptional task. Bela rada was the Serbian phrase for the white, or common, daisy. In earlier times, before modern burial vaults, daisies would often grow by the thousands in the nutrient-rich soil of graveyards. Thus, the command was to turn the remote oil drilling station into a graveyard.

  The code pleased Marmilov a great deal.

  “Transmit the code,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me,” Marmilov said. “Send the code. Bela rada. Send it immediately, while there is still time.”

  “What if they don’t receive it?” the young man said.

  Marmilov sensed the man’s reluctance. Of course he did. Marmilov could smell hesitancy in the wind. He raised his hands, palms upward like a supplicant, as if to indicate that would simply be fate.

  “If they don’t receive it, they don’t receive it. These things happen in combat. But God help you if I discover that you didn’t send it. Is that understood?”

  The man nodded. “Of course.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  12:15 a.m. Alaska Daylight Time (4:15 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

  Martin Frobisher Oil Platform

  Six Miles North of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

  The Beaufort Sea

  The Arctic Ocean

  The element of surprise was gone.

  Now it was a fight. And they had to move fast. There were hostages here somewhere, and as long as any of the terrorists were still in the game…

  Luke didn’t want to think about it.

  He and Murphy found Ed and moved through the darkness, headed for the towering oil rig. It loomed above them like some mysterious ancient ruin.

  The storm beat down, a cold salty rain blowing in sheets, freezing everything over. Shots rang out. Constant gunfire. SEAL teams were searching the Quonset huts, but they were empty. Everyone was on that rig.

  “How many SEALs got hit?” Luke shouted to Ed.

  Ed held up three fingers. “I saw three. Three dead on the beach. They were working on them, but…” He shook his head.

  Up ahead, on the path between outbuildings, a man in black jumped out. He fired his gun, short automatic bursts, probably an Uzi. Two SEALs shot him at the same time, both head shots, from different directions. His head came apart, a piece going this way, a piece going that way. His body spun like a ballerina.

  Murphy laughed. “They triangulated that bastard’s skull.”

  Luke glanced at him. Murphy was utterly bedraggled. He looked like a cat that had fallen into a swimming pool.

  “You all right?” Luke said.

  Murphy nodded. “Yeah. But let’s finish this up, all right?”

  “You got it.”

  The rig was right above them now. They reached the base of it.

  SEALs pounded up the iron stairs ahead of them. More gunshots rang out. A man in black, his face covered by a black balaclava, tumbled down the stairs. Luke looked at him. There was a white patch on his coat, with an image of a hawk or an eagle.

  Who were these guys?

  Whoever they were, they were in total disarray now. Command and control had collapsed. The leaders must be dead. There was no plan, no coordination, just random guys popping out, taking their best shot, and getting cut down.

  Luke reached a landing.

  A group of SEALs stood near a heavy iron door, staring at it.

  Luke stopped. He signaled to Murphy and Ed, who were just ahead, moving up the next flight of stairs: Keep going.

  The SEALs looked at Luke. They were young guys. They looked like they were just out of BUD/S training.

  “What’s up, guys?”

  None of the SEALs moved or said a word.

  “I’m Agent Stone,” Luke said. “FBI Special Response Team. Supposedly I’m the civilian oversight on this operation. That means I’m in charge. What’s up?”

  One of the SEALs gestured at the door. “We heard shots fired from in there, but there’s no way to engage the enemy. The door is sealed. There doesn’t seem to be any other way in. It’s like someone locked themselves in there, and then…”

  “Blow it,” Luke said.

  The kid raised a hand. “Yes sir, that’s what we’re thinking. But given the circumstances, and the possibility of the presence of noncombatants, we’re just waiting for authori…”

  “I’m your authorization,” Luke said.

  That thick sealed door gave him a bad feeling.
The kid had the same feeling—Luke could see it in his eyes.

  “Blow it now. I take full responsibility.”

  The kid nodded. Two SEALs kneeled by the door and affixed plastic explosive charges near the bottom hinge, and near the lock mechanism. Another affixed an explosive near the top hinge. Luke backed up the stairs, as did the soldiers. Everyone got low and covered up.

  “Fire in the hole!”

  BOOOM.

  The door fell off its hinges. The lock survived, and the door leaned diagonally to the right. Two SEALS went up to it, wrenched it away from the lock mechanism, and let it fall to the deck. It fell with a heavy CLANG.

  Two more burst in, weapons drawn. Then two more.

  No sound came. Then a SEAL came stumbling out of the open hole.

  “Oh, God,” he said. He bent over and vomited.

  “Medic!” another SEAL screamed from inside. “Corpsman!”

  Luke went to the door. Inside there was a pile of bodies, impossible to say how many. They were bound, zip-tied with their hands behind their backs. There was blood all over the floor, and all over the corpses. They looked like bags of garbage, left behind and forgotten. The room was deep, maybe twenty meters across. The bodies were like wall-to-wall carpeting.

  Tied up and executed. All of them.

  Luke spotted two men in the black uniforms of the terrorists. They were not tied, but they lay among the dead. It was easy to see what had happened here. They had killed the hostages, then themselves.

  Luke grabbed the arm of the SEAL he had talked to.

  “See if anyone’s alive in there. If not, pull your medics back and secure the scene. No one goes in or out. No one touches anything. We’re going to want a forensics team in here. This is evidence of a crime against humanity. The more your men step on it, the harder it becomes to prove anything.”

  The kid stared at him.

  “Got it?”

  The kid nodded. His eyes said he had never seen anything like this before. His eyes said his mind was going blank.

  “Yes sir,” he said, but there wasn’t much in it.

  “I’ll be right back,” Luke said. He smacked the kid on the side of the head. “Sharpen up and secure this crime scene. Now.”

  The kid shook his head. His eyes watered for a second, then cleared.

  “Yes sir!”

  Luke continued on. He tried to shake off the image of the dead men, but this mission just kept getting worse and worse. What was next?

  Three stories further up, he reached the control deck. A shootout had just happened here. The thick glass of the control room was shattered. SEALs had taken it over. Ed and Murphy were in there, too.

  One terrorist was left, standing by an open laptop computer, with his hands up. His black jacket had two grenades hanging from it. The Americans surrounded him, guns drawn. Luke moved into the room.

  “Careful,” he said. “The brass wants someone to interview.”

  “That’s why we saved this one for you,” one of the SEALs said.

  “Any others alive besides him?” Luke said.

  The SEAL gestured at the three dead men on the floor.

  “We haven’t found any.”

  The last man standing was short, with close-cropped dark hair. He wore the same black jumpsuit as the others. He had the same white patch on his jacket. His face was weathered. His eyes were hard. His hair had a touch of gray in it.

  This was a man who had seen and done a lot of things. He stared at Luke.

  “Speak English?” Luke said.

  The man made a gesture with his hand, holding two fingers about an inch apart. Now he smiled.

  “Little.”

  Suddenly his hand strayed to a grenade on his chest. He pulled at it.

  “Don’t do that!” Luke shouted.

  BANG!

  One shot rang out. The man’s head snapped back. A chunk of skull and brain flew backward. The man stood still for half a second, as if he didn’t know he was dead, and then slithered to the floor.

  Luke turned to the source of the gunshot.

  Murphy stood there, his arm outstretched, pistol in hand.

  He shook his head. “I ain’t getting blown up over this. Sorry.”

  Luke’s shoulders slumped. He looked at big Ed Newsam.

  Ed shook his head and smiled. Then he laughed. It was if Ed was saying, Murphy’s a loose cannon, but he’s our loose cannon. Ed was free to laugh. He hadn’t seen the room with the hostages yet.

  Even so…

  Luke laughed too. It felt good to laugh. What a nightmare this had been. What an absolute nightmare. The sheer absurd horror of it somehow made it funny.

  “Holy hell, Murph.”

  A second later, everyone in the room seemed to be laughing.

  “It’s been a long night,” Murphy said. “My patience with these people is wearing thin.”

  Luke stepped over the body and went to the laptop. He looked at the screen. The characters were Cyrillic, nothing he could read. He closed the cover and tucked the computer under his arm. He was taking it with him. Whatever the hell had happened here, some clue to it must be inside this machine.

  He looked at Murphy and Ed. He looked at the gathered SEALs. They were all still smiling. Nothing was funny. But everything was funny.

  Luke shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s the end of the interview.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  9:45 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time

  Headquarters of the Special Response Team

  McLean, Virginia

  “They are cleared to land.”

  The windsock indicated a slight breeze out of the south. The sleek black helicopter hovered and slowly lowered itself to the tarmac.

  From outside the security fence surrounding the helipad, Don Morris watched his team arrive. The doors of the chopper slid open, and a group of tired-looking people climbed out.

  The mission had been a disaster. It had been a highly classified covert operation. No one knew anything about it yet, but it was going to be impossible to keep it that way for long. Three Navy SEALs were dead, but the bigger issue was the dead hostages. The men on that oil rig had friends and family—family that were going to wonder what happened to their fathers, sons, husbands, and brothers.

  And that meant the SRT needed to have its ducks in a row before the explosion of publicity came.

  As Don stood there, the team filed past like a line of zombies.

  “Good job, guys,” Don said. He clapped his hands. “I’m proud of you all.”

  Don took his role as head cheerleader seriously. Especially when a mission went wrong, but your people performed well, it was important to remind them of that. These people were the best, but even the best could use a little boost sometimes.

  Luke Stone was last in line. He crossed the tarmac carrying an overnight bag on his shoulder and a laptop computer tucked under his arm.

  “How are you doing, son?” Don said to him.

  Luke shook his head. He looked more than tired—he looked angry.

  “I don’t think we should really talk about it here,” he said in a low voice. “But suffice to say it was one of the most poorly planned operations I’ve ever seen. It was like someone had a daydream, and then put it in motion. The enemy knew we were coming, and from where—they were waiting for us. They either had great intel, or they anticipated us every step of the way. If Murphy hadn’t gone rogue and saved our necks, I think we’d have had fifteen dead SEALs instead of three. Maybe all of them would have died, along with me and Ed as well. As a country, if that’s the best we can do…”

  He trailed off and shook his head. “I don’t know, Don.”

  Don nodded at the laptop.

  “I heard you took something that didn’t belong to you.”

  Luke nodded. “After what I saw out there, I didn’t think it was a good idea to trust this thing to anybody but us. Whatever it says, it’s in Cyrillic, which suggests to me the Russians were involved. But now that we’re home, we ca
n break it open, decode it, and find out for sure.”

  “Just as long you know,” Don said. “There are other people around who want to take a look inside there.”

  Luke shrugged. “They can wait. It was their mission, and it was a mess. We had no business being involved. But since they invited us, and since they nearly got us all killed, I took a souvenir. It seems like a fair trade to me.”

  He began to head inside.

  “You saw it?” Don said. “The bodies?”

  Luke stopped. He stared into Don’s eyes. Don could feel the heat coming from there. Luke was a good man, a true American, and one of the best special operators Don had ever seen. And he was young. He had the potential to become more than just a great soldier in the field, but a great strategist and leader.

  But he was still a bit of a hothead. He had killed a lot of men in his time. He had seen a lot of death. And he had a tendency to become emotional about it. He could get his feelings hurt. That didn’t make him weak—it made him human. But at some point, he was going to have to grow past it and learn to see the bigger picture.

  “The massacre?” Luke said. “Yeah, I saw what was left. It was fresh. They probably did it right after we took the beach. I saw the bodies. I saw men who had been bound hand and foot, and shot while they were sitting on the ground.”

  “And?”

  “It makes it personal,” Luke said. “Whoever organized this, wherever they are, I’m going to get them.”

  * * *

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  Luke was exhausted. An hour had passed since they got in.

  He was sitting in the conference room with Don Morris, Swann, Trudy, and a young guy he’d never seen before. Luke assumed he was a technician or expert on some thing or another.

  Murphy and Ed Newsam had already gone home. That was next on Luke’s agenda. If he was sane, he would have left, too. But those killings had stuck in his craw. He didn’t want the SRT’s response to get out ahead of him. And he didn’t want what they found out being passed around.

  Also, before he could go home, he needed to call Becca and sound her out. He dreaded making that call.