by Ben Coes
Dewey was nearly sideways near the bottom of the pool. His legs made one last attempt at a kick then went still. He was clearly struggling. Tacoma shook his head as he realized he would have to jump in again.
“Wow,” Tacoma muttered aloud.
He dived into the pool, descending quickly. He grabbed Dewey’s arm, shaking Dewey. Dewey’s arms were like tree trunks, and Tacoma shook, then pinched Dewey near his elbow, trying to open up another level. When Dewey still didn’t respond, Tacoma went to remove the blindfold. But as he did, he saw Dewey’s hands lurch to his thigh and grab the blade. Before Tacoma could react, Dewey had the knife out of the sheath. He slashed the blade to his feet, cutting the thin rope around his ankles, then twisted his hands and severed the ties around his wrists. Before Tacoma knew what was happening, Dewey had his arm around Tacoma’s neck, where he shoved the blade, locking Tacoma down.
Tacoma didn’t bother fighting back. He showed a two-fingered peace sign, indicating that he’d given up. Dewey dropped the blade and kicked off the bottom of the pool, swimming back to the surface.
By the time Tacoma picked up his knife and swam back up, Dewey was already out of the pool, on all fours, coughing up water and trying to catch his breath.
Dewey looked at Tacoma as Tacoma climbed slowly and calmly out of the pool.
“Fuckhead,” said Tacoma with a hint of anger in his voice. “That’s not the point of the goddam exercise!”
“I thought you said it was about survival,” coughed Dewey, still on all fours, struggling to get air.
“It is.”
“Well, I survived. Theoretically, you didn’t.”
“You asked me to fucking train you, asshole!” yelled Tacoma, standing up. He resheathed the SEAL Pup.
Dewey sat down, looking up at Tacoma. He started to catch his breath, though he was still breathing heavily. He couldn’t help looking up at Tacoma with a shit-eating grin.
“I guess that settles it,” said Dewey, breathing heavily and grinning.
“Settles what?” said Tacoma.
“The age-old debate: who’s tougher, Delta or SEALs.”
“The only debate that settled is who’s a bigger asshole,” said Tacoma.
Dewey laughed. He put his hand out and Tacoma pulled him up.
“So, what’s next?” said Dewey.
“What’s next?” said Tacoma. “Glad you asked. I’m going to teach you about waterboarding.”
* * *
Dewey and Tacoma lifted weights for an hour and showered in the locker rooms. Dewey got dressed before Tacoma and went out to the parking lot. He had on a pair of khaki shorts that had hems that were fraying. He wore worn-down L.L.Bean boots and a white short-sleeved button-down. He stood and waited next to a motorcycle—a black Suzuki Hayabusa. It was parked next to a bright red Ferrari 488 Pista with black racing stripes.
When Tacoma came out of the building, he looked stylish. He had on light gray pants, a blue button-down, and a pair of white suede loafers. It was an outfit most human beings could not come close to pulling off, but Tacoma looked as if he was stepping off a Hollywood set. His hair was short, thick, and neat-looking. He was still buttoning his shirt as he approached Dewey.
Dewey squinted as Tacoma approached.
“What time is the croquet tournament?” said Dewey.
“I’m meeting someone,” said Tacoma. “Someone female. I realize you don’t know too many of them, but I do.”
Dewey nodded, smiling, though it was obvious—at least to Tacoma—that he’d struck a nerve. He hadn’t meant to.
“Cool. What’s her name?” said Dewey.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
Dewey looked at Tacoma.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Dewey.
“Yeah, well, I do worry about it. When was the last time you went on a date? It’s been over a year. You’re thirty-nine years old.”
“Forty,” said Dewey.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Tacoma. “Really? I’m not even thirty yet.”
Dewey laughed.
“So, what’s her name?” said Dewey.
“Something. I can’t remember. She’s Canadian. I met her in Miami.”
“Weight Watchers?” said Dewey, climbing onto the motorcycle.
“On the beach,” said Tacoma, winking. “She needed help removing her bikini.”
“What’s the plan?” said Dewey.
“I’m flying up to New York,” said Tacoma.
“Nice,” said Dewey as he turned on the Hayabusa and revved the engine, then hit the kickstand as he pulled on a helmet.
“She probably has a friend,” said Tacoma. “You can fly up with me. My place has like four or five bedrooms. Seriously, why don’t you come up? Double date. I’m telling you, she’s seriously smoking hot and I’ll tell her to bring a friend just as hot. We’ll go out dancing and then spend some time showing them Manhattan, in particular the bedrooms of my condo. It has an indoor pool.”
Dewey smiled.
“Sounds fun,” said Dewey, “but unfortunately I’m getting fitted for orthopedic shoes in the morning.”
“Fine, be a lame ass,” said Tacoma. “I’ll be back in a few days and we’ll continue our lessons. Next up is what to do when one of your floaties pops.”
3
7:57 P.M. TEHRAN
12:27 P.M. U.S. EST
QUDS FORCE HEADQUARTERS
CORRIDOR 11S
AHVAZ, IRAN
As Shakib thought about Mansour’s briefing, he stared at the one-page graphic of Manhattan given out by Mansour. But his mind was elsewhere. Something gnawed at Shakib. A strange feeling. All along, Mansour—his handpicked leader of Hezbollah—had inserted an extracurricular action into the overall design without telling him.
By introducing it in front of the Supreme Leader, Mansour had received approval for a part of the overall attack on America that he’d never discussed with Shakib. It was not only in violation of the chain of command, it was treasonous.
Now, for the first time, Shakib studied the underlying extracurricular part of the operation. It was a targeted assassination on an American citizen, two hundred miles away. An irrelevancy, and yet Mansour hadn’t told him of it.
His chosen lieutenant had betrayed him and left him no out.
If Shakib stepped in and attempted to call off the operation, he would incur the wrath of Suleiman. If he said yes, he would be handing over supremacy to Mansour—if he survived—because the most stunning aspect of all in the operation was Mansour’s participation. He would be the one to lead the assault. He—or one of his gunmen—would be the one to kill J. P. Dellenbaugh—or die trying.
What he didn’t understand was why part of the operation involved a mouse-chase beforehand, and why hide it? Shakib put his feelings about Mansour’s treachery behind him. He realized that was less important than the overall advancement of Iran’s objectives. Shakib studied the document as objectively as he could as a military commander.
Why now?
The larger situation was remarkably opportunistic. U.S. President J. P. Dellenbaugh would be at the United Nations.
But that was in Manhattan. Andreas was living a peaceful life in Washington, D.C., and though VEVAK had primary knowledge of where Andreas would be, why was this necessary?
He read through the proposed operation anyway. The concept was simple: eliminate Andreas. They had a pattern marked and would strike him near his home in Georgetown, at a restaurant he had made the mistake of frequenting.
It was an operation born of overthinking—and fear.
For the second time, Shakib read the file on Andreas.
ANDREAS, DEWEY [File #133–465]
USA
ENEMY OF THE REPUBLIC
RATING PER QIDT 9 JANE: #s
INTERPOL “Non-exigent”
KNOWN DATA—
CURRENT OCCUPATION:
TIER 1 LANGLEY NO/SEC
CIA OPERATIVE, “NON-OFFICIAL COVER”
Ex-DELTA
Force—NARCO and Counter-intel
Assassination of Rumallah Khomeini, brother of Ayatollah Khomeini: Bali
Extraction/abduction of Russian intelligence chemist?????
All-American collegiate football player/elected to enter the military vs professional
U.S. Army Ranger: Rank #1 (of 188), Winter School
FIELD RATED 4.98
JSOC 4.99 PRD
DELTA FORCE—recruitment date unknown
Advanced Field Group, aka Vanguard
One of six in his class, believed to be the only one alive
KEY OPERATING STATISTICS:
China—assassination of MSS chief Fao Bhang, Beijing
Russia—exfiltration of Vibohr
Vibohr later assassinated by Andreas in Montreal
Iran—theft of Republic’s first nuclear device
Macau—murder of MG Abu Paria, head of all Republic intelligence, security, and military forces
North Korea—sighting per ANSKAR of Andreas near Pyongyang day of Kim Jong-un “heart attack”
COMMENTARY:
Andreas is classified as a Tier 1 by his own government. He is one of only four individuals to achieve the rating since its inception in 1992.
Andreas has inflicted great damage on the Republic.
He has been sighted by a tertiary near his home in Georgetown, Washington, D.C., over the past several weeks.
An opportunity to remove an enemy of the Republic such as Andreas now exists. A pattern has been observed in terms of his behavior.
Andreas is armed at all times—and is ruthless. But his knowledge of cold arms and face-to-face combat is stronger. Detailed files of Andreas’s background, discovered by MSS, reveal a brutal trail of broken necks, his signature.
Andreas trains during the morning and then goes back to his town house in Georgetown. Andreas then walks to a small neighborhood restaurant for lunch. There is remarkably little if any perimeter security.
It is my opinion, we should remove Andreas despite the fact that he, at last report, will not be in New York City and far from the planned attack, the greater attack. Removing him is straightforward and thus why not do it?
OBSERVED STRENGTHS:
As much damage as he has done, Andreas is most of all elusive
There are no physical weaknesses
Andreas is comfortable with all manner of cold weapons and improvisation
Andreas is responsible for theft of the Republic’s first nuclear device
Andreas killed General Abu Paria in Macau
Andreas should be considered extremely dangerous
If armed, proximity to Andreas should be considered an Active Kill Zone
Andreas has high-level backing and is known to be close to DCIA Calibrisi and POTUS Dellenbaugh
PSYCHOLOGICAL WEAKNESSES:
More than a decade ago, Andreas was disavowed by the U.S. government and falsely accused of murdering his wife. Though innocent, events surrounding his wife’s death forced Andreas into exile. By this time, Andreas lived outside the U.S. for an extended period during which he was “inactive” and little is known about the time. He reemerged when the oil platform he was working on was targeted coincidentally by Alexander Fortuna. Andreas survived the attack and ultimately killed Fortuna, and, one year later, his father, Aswan.
Andreas was targeted for assassination by China MSS—during the operation, a Chinese sniper accidentally killed Andreas’s fiancée, Jessica Tanzer, leading Andreas to seek revenge upon and ultimately kill Fao Bhang, head of MSS, who’d ordered Andreas’s murder and was responsible for his fiancée’s death.
FINDING:
Both incidents point to a possible weakness involving exploitation or use of people close to him or female who …
The door to Shakib’s office opened and Mansour stepped into the room. After he closed the door behind him he walked toward Shakib’s desk.
Mansour, twenty-eight, was six feet tall and wiry, even a little gaunt for a soldier. His face had a layer of stubble on it since the briefing. Mansour smiled as he approached Shakib’s desk. He stopped and saluted, staring at Shakib.
“Good morning, General,” said Mansour.
“Good morning, Zakaria,” said Shakib.
“I’m leaving for New York,” said Mansour. “You said you wanted to see me before I left?”
“You look a little tired. How did you sleep?”
“Actually, I didn’t, sir. I’ve been cleaning up a few loose ends. I plan on sleeping on the flight over.”
Mansour wore a tan-and-green sweatshirt, and jeans. Mansour was a soldier—a product, over a rugged nine-year period—of Imam Ali Officers University, Iranian Defense Forces, Revolutionary Guard, QUDS, VEVAK, and, ultimately, Hezbollah, where he now served as overall commander, the link between the Iranian government and the terrorist group widely considered to be the most ruthless, evil, and capable in the world.
He looked more like a graduate student than a soldier, but appearances could be deceiving and indeed, Mansour’s smiling, intelligent, happy demeanor was unusually ironic when considering the damage he’d inflicted on various enemies of the Republic, both internal and external, over a violent career. Mansour ran all strategy and operations for Hezbollah, dictating moves through a tight-knit group of four deputies, who then managed the day-to-day tactics across a diaspora of lieutenants spread across the Middle East, Central and South America, and even the United States. Though in charge of a wide spectrum of activity, Mansour still insisted on leading all high-leverage scenarios from the ground, in theater. He knew men at each echelon of the structure and had carefully handpicked the men who would be there beneath his command for the assault on New York City.
In each step along Mansour’s climb within the military and intelligence hierarchy, he had exhibited overwhelming skill, not simply as a killer of men—something he was without peer among Iranian agents—but as a leader of men.
It had been Mansour who saved Bashar al-Assad just minutes before assassination. Mansour had flown by night chopper into Damascus as the al-Assad government was falling. At the outskirts of the Presidential Palace atop Mount Mezzeh, Mansour was in a Mil Mi-24 chopper shot down thirty feet in the air by a surface-to-air missile, triggered by an Israeli commando from Sayeret Matkal. The chopper dropped from the sky like a rock. Mansour crash-landed with two other fighters, both of whom were killed on impact along with the pilots as they slammed into a courtyard in front of the palace, where al-Assad—a key Iranian ally and puppet—was locked down in an office suite on the fourth floor, minutes away from sure death at the hands of Israeli Special Forces. Mansour had emerged from the flaming chopper and—over the course of the next half hour—singlehandedly taken out four Israelis that night, protecting al-Assad until backup came in.
But Mansour didn’t ever talk about Damascus because he didn’t give a damn about Damascus or al-Assad or the past. The only thing Mansour cared about was the present.
Mansour looked at Shakib, then his eyes went to the desk. A photo of Andreas was visible to both men.
“I’m disappointed in you, Zakaria,” said Shakib calmly.
“I know, General Shakib. I expected this.”
“You could not have told me?” said Shakib.
“You would’ve said no,” said Mansour.
“Andreas is not our concern, certainly not right now. You slipped in the authorization behind my back.”
“I apologize, General,” said Mansour. “I did what I thought was best for Iran.”
“You went over my head,” Shakib said sharply.
“I was asked to design the attack on the United States,” said Mansour. “As the overall commander, I was willing to suffer the consequences of disobeying a direct order, sir. I did it because I believe it’s prudent to remove Iran’s greatest enemy.”
“You went around me!” Shakib bellowed.
“I took a calculated risk,” said Mansour, “because as irrational as it might seem, I actually care about avenging Abu
Paria’s death, just as I would yours, sir.”
Shakib paused.
“I’m calling off not only the attack on Andreas, but also New York City,” said Shakib.
Mansour nodded, looking into Shakib’s eyes, but saying nothing.
“In addition, while you will not be court-martialed, Zakaria, I am demoting you. I want you back at QUDS. You’ll be an instructor based in Kerman.”
Kerman, to the south, was a backwater, away from borders with other countries, devoid of even the potential for the kind of conflict Mansour was used to. Both men understood the severity of the punishment—but also the fact that Shakib could’ve had Mansour shot for treason for what he’d done.
Mansour nodded calmly. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I spent time there. It’s nice country.”
“I will review your status in a year,” said Shakib. “You are an exemplary soldier.”
“Thank you, General,” said Mansour. He saluted firmly, with a stoic look on his face, then placed his hand at his side, feeling along his belt. He turned and started to walk across the large office, then stopped.
“May I ask a question, General Shakib?” said Mansour politely.
“What?” said Shakib.
“Did not the Supreme Leader approve of eliminating Andreas?” said Mansour.
“How dare you! What you did was treason! You’re lucky to still be alive! Get out!” barked Shakib angrily, pointing.
Mansour rotated—his left arm whipped sideways, and a knife shot from his hand. It was a fixed-blade double-edged ROSarms hunting blade. It somersaulted through the air, flashes of silver and a high hum—then the knife stabbed Shakib in the left eye, slicing straight through the eyeball and puncturing through the membrane protecting Shakib’s brain—all before Shakib could even react.
Shakib dropped to the floor, groaning. Blood burped from his eye socket as he writhed in agony, reaching for it. Soon his face was covered in blood, and the carpet beneath became stained in a fast-growing pool of crimson.
Mansour approached and went around the desk. Without emotion, he reached down and grabbed the hilt of the blade, yanking up and wiping blood and veins onto Shakib’s shirt.