by Jack Mars
Maria knelt beside the plane, checking the contents of her black bag, a shoddy dirt bike on its side nearby. She stood quickly when she saw them and gave them each a brief hug.
“Glad to see you’re safe,” she said. “Especially after you blew up the port.”
Reidigger shrugged. “Had to be done.”
“I talked to Penny. You want the bad news, or the worse news?”
Zero sighed. There was never good news. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; they were all alive at least. “Bad news first.”
“We’re disavowed.”
Of course we are. It wasn’t the first time. But Zero was well aware it could mean trouble down the road, if they got back stateside in one piece. After Penny’s warning about Shaw’s intentions, he had no doubt that the CIA director was building a case against them.
“So no support,” Alan said. “That’s pretty much status quo for us. What’s the worse?”
Maria stared at the asphalt. “The railgun was used, off the coast of Oman. Three destroyer-class ships, blown to pieces in less than a minute.”
Zero’s lungs deflated with the news. Not one, but three American warships destroyed in under a minute? It sounded impossible. And the lives lost…
“So the Somalis were never planning on coming here,” he reasoned aloud. They were more than a thousand miles off base.
“That’s the other thing,” Maria said sourly. “The Somali boat that was seen in the China Sea? It’s at the bottom of the Arabian Sea now, along with nine dead Somali pirates.”
The hits kept on coming. The Somalis were a clever diversion by the real aggressors; have someone else steal the weapon, let them be seen, and while every resource was looking for them, kill the pirates and take the railgun.
“No leads?” Alan asked.
“Not one,” Maria replied. “Of course the president has everything under the sun trying to track it, but so far they’re failing. We’re talking about a very small, very fast boat designed not to be noticed.”
“What are our options?” Zero asked, though he already knew that there was only one.
“Well, we could give up, go home, and try to sort this mess out with Shaw,” Maria said plainly. “Or we can take Hannibal’s plane, get the hell out of Somalia, and try to find an upgrade on this hunk of junk while we figure out our next move.”
The choice was obvious. None of them were about to give up, especially not now that the weapon had been used and a substantial amount of lives had been lost.
“You got any resources around here?” Zero asked Reidigger.
He shook his head. “Not in this corner of the world. Trust me, Hannibal would have been the last choice if he wasn’t the only choice.”
“We’ll need to think of something, and fast.” Zero’s mind was chugging at full speed. “Whoever has the railgun plans to use it again, and soon. They wouldn’t have shown their hand like that otherwise.” He had seen the specs on the South Korean vessel; it could have outrun the destroyers easily and slipped away undetected, but instead the aggressors had opted to use it.
“The Chinese?” Alan suggested. “Bet they’re still sore about the ultrasonic weapon.”
Zero shook his head. “I doubt it. The Chinese are walking on eggshells right now; if they were going to try something, it would be a lot more covert.” Trying to guess who might be behind it was fruitless. And discerning a potential target would be nearly impossible without knowing who first.
Although, he thought, there is a process of elimination here. He created a map in his head, examining the route. The pirates had likely stuck closer to the coast, through the Gulf of Thailand and the Bay of Bengal rather than over open water. It was the only way they would have reached the Arabian Sea so quickly. And striking in Oman, so close to the stomping grounds of the Navy’s Fifth Fleet, would put the US on alert that the next target might be Middle Eastern.
“I see those gears are turning,” Reidigger grunted. “What are you thinking?”
“They could get to the Mediterranean,” Zero told them. “Via the Gulf of Aden.”
“That would make a whole lot of European cities potential targets,” Maria noted.
“Exactly,” Zero agreed. “And Jerusalem, Syria, Lebanon…”
“But they could get to the US through the Strait of Gibraltar,” Alan added.
“True,” Zero said, “but that would require they cross the entire Atlantic. It would take days, if that small of a ship could even make the journey without needing to refuel. Besides, now that they’ve used the weapon, they know the heat is going to be on more than ever.”
It didn’t exactly narrow things down. The next target could be a European capital, or densely populated coastal regions, or even a nuclear reactor, like the Chinese had targeted back in November. But it was, at least, a starting point.
“That still doesn’t solve our problem of needing a plane that’s not threatening to fall apart at the seams,” said Maria.
“True.” But Alan’s mention of Gibraltar got another gear turning in Zero’s head. “I know where we can go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
“Your hesitance to tell me where it is,” said King Basheer, “is concerning, Salman.”
The sheikh smiled graciously. The two of them were alone, in one of the king’s private chambers in the palace just south of Riyadh. “It is… in transit, Highness.”
Basheer narrowed his eyes. The young king did not like being kept in the dark—but he would learn soon enough that certain matters were best left out of his hands and in those more capable of performing dark deeds. It would be unbecoming of royalty for Basheer to be involved directly in the plot. Not to mention, Salman considered, the king would want more control if he knew precisely what was occurring.
It had been exceedingly easy for the sheikh to slip away from the Arabian Sea. He had taken some delight in watching the railgun in action, the fireball in the distance indicating that it had not only hit its target but worked spectacularly. After the first shot, Salman and Ali had sped back to Masirah Island, abandoning their small skiff at a fishing dock and taking a commercial ferry back to mainland Oman. From there, a private plane was waiting to take them on the swift flight to Saudi Arabia. All said, Sheikh Salman was back in Riyadh less than ninety minutes after the first battleship was destroyed.
“In transit to where?” Basheer demanded. “What is the target?”
“My king,” Salman said with a deep bow of his head. “Such details are beneath your station—”
“Or are they being intentionally kept from me?” Basheer said sharply. “You have been given much, Salman, much more than any tribal sheikh before you. But you have not been given authority to act on my behalf.”
“Of course not, Excellency.” Salman would never admit to it, but he had already acted on Basheer’s behalf under many circumstances; the deals that the king had established when he was still the crown prince, those that the American vice president had dubbed “unsavory factions,” were more than simple arms deals. They were alliances, in anticipation of King Ghazi’s death and Basheer’s rise to the throne. Salman himself had made promises that he was not sure he could keep—at least not at the time. But with the weapon, the plasma railgun, they would establish themselves as a power and unify Islam under their banner.
But only if they could prove capable of seeing their plan through and destroying their enemy.
“I act not on your behalf, but in your name—and that of Allah, praise be upon Him.” Salman’s attempts to placate the young king did not seem to be working terribly well; Basheer folded his arms and glared, seemingly trying to come off as authoritative but looking to the sheikh more like a petulant child.
“The weapon is en route over the Atlantic,” Salman said at last.
King Basheer frowned. “Traveling over the Atlantic? That will take far too long! We will miss our opportunity!”
Salman felt the corners of his mouth pulling into an involuntary grin. “I did not s
ay, my king, that it was in the water.”
*
Zero was certain that the Cessna was going to quake apart at the seams as they rumbled over Moroccan airspace. Reidigger’s announcement over the headset didn’t help any.
“We’re running on fumes,” he told them as the plane gave a shudder. “Looks like this landing is going to be a glide-in.”
“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” Zero practically shouted over the din of the engine.
“What can I say?” Reidigger pushed the yoke gently, easing the plane lower in altitude. “There’s a special place in my heart for old hunks of junk.”
Finally, mercifully, the Cessna’s tires bounced down on a short, bumpy airstrip in the Moroccan desert, just outside an American forward operating base—or so it appeared to anyone who would care to look twice.
Designation H-6 was a CIA black site where the worst of the worst were sent to be shoved into holes and forgotten by the world. Hell-Six, as it was called by those who ran it, was home to high-risk acquisitions that were too valuable to kill but too dangerous to be allowed anywhere else.
The site was in the rough shape of a square, surrounded by an uneven chain-link fence topped with barbed wire and plastered with signs in several languages that threatened all sorts of bodily harm to trespassers. Inside the fence were rows of semi-permanent canvas tents of varying sizes, interrupted here and there by squat, domed steel structures. Zero had been in one of those domes before; he knew that inside was nothing but dirt and a steel grate in the ground, beneath which was a hole, and inside which was a prisoner.
They disembarked from the Cessna to find a half dozen Special Forces soldiers pointing weapons at them, each one very much the stereotype of what anyone might expect: beards, sunglasses, bandanas tied over their heads, tattoos up their exposed forearms.
“Quite the greeting,” Reidigger muttered as he stepped off the plane with his hands empty and overhead.
But one of the soldiers lowered his gun, letting it hang from his shoulder by the strap. “At ease, fellas.” Sergeant Jack Flagg stepped forward, wearing Oakleys and an olive-drab scarf around his neck. He extended a black-gloved hand. “Agent Zero, Agent Johansson. Always a pleasure when you drop out of the sky unannounced in a heap of garbage.”
Zero shook Flagg’s hand. “Sergeant. Wish I could say it was nice to see you, but it’s never under great circumstances.”
Flagg grinned at that. The sergeant was a Green Beret who was hired to take on management of H-6 when he was up for retirement and realized it didn’t suit him. A lifelong military man, Flagg handpicked his staff from fellow Special Forces retirees and operated completely off the grid; despite the place being a CIA black site, the agency didn’t actually intervene with operations. The brutal truth of it was they didn’t know what went on there and didn’t want any culpability, so long as things ran smoothly.
All of that meant that Flagg was in the dark and would have no idea that Zero and his team had been disavowed. Similarly, Shaw would never guess that Zero would go to such a place, let alone that he had friends there.
“You all look like you could use a hot meal and a shower,” Flagg joked as he led them through the gates and into the encampment of H-6. “Sorry to say we have neither.”
“How about a plane?” Zero asked.
Flagg threw a glance over his shoulder at the beat-up Cessna. “Why, you starting a collection?”
“That one’s yours,” Zero quipped back. “Consider it a gift.”
“Ran out of fuel, huh?”
“Yeah. And it won’t get us where we need to be fast enough.”
Flagg halted outside one of the wide canvas tents. “As you can see, we’re a little short on airplanes at the moment.” He gestured beyond the fence to the general nothingness of the desert. “But there are places we can call when we need air support, and they don’t generally ask questions. Of course, they might start if we’re asking them to drop off a plane and have their pilot find another way home.”
“Which is what we’d be asking them to do,” Zero said.
“Think you can make it work?” Maria prodded.
Flagg tugged off his black baseball cap and smoothed his matted hair. “I think I could come up with something.” He jutted his chin toward the tent in front of him. “There’s a cistern in there. Everything’s purified, so you can wash up, have a drink. I’ll make the call.”
“Thanks,” Zero said. “And Sergeant? Not to complicate things, but we’re in a time crunch.”
“ASAFP, got it.” Flagg trotted off. That was the benefit of having friends in low places like Hell-Six. They were happy to help and didn’t ask questions.
Zero lifted the flap of the canvas tent for Maria and let her go in first. “You coming, Alan?”
Reidigger hesitated. “I’m good for now. Just gonna take a moment to myself.”
Zero nodded. He didn’t want to push the issue, especially given the information he’d shared not too long ago about his own problems. So instead he followed Maria into the tent. A large steel tank, at least two hundred gallons, sat in the center with a black pump affixed to the side, emptying into a thick plastic basin sitting on four legs. The wastewater drained into a small barrel-shaped tank beneath the basin, and through a filtration system and back into the cistern.
Hanging over the basin from two thin ropes was a dirty mirror, probably for shaving—though it didn’t seem like any of the men at H-6 bothered with that. Zero glanced in it. Flagg was right; he did look a mess. It was no small wonder that the sergeant even recognized him. His face had streaks of dark soot from the explosion on the dock in Mogadishu. His forehead near his left temple was caked in dried blood. His eyes were bloodshot, the bags beneath them looking deeper than they had a day ago.
“Go ahead,” Maria offered, gesturing to the basin.
“Thanks.” He dug both hands into the water. It was cool and instantly refreshing. He made use of the gritty hand soap, splashed water liberally on his face, and took a drink from his cupped hands.
As he did, he felt Maria’s arms slide around his midsection, and then her head came to rest on his back, between the shoulder blades, as she liked to do.
“I think you should stay here.”
Zero turned suddenly, causing Maria to release him and take a quick step back.
“What? Why?” he demanded.
“Because Shaw is obviously gunning for you. I don’t think he’s all that interested in me or Alan, but you—if you keep this up, if you stay with us, you’re just going to be giving him more fuel for the fire.”
Zero shook his head. This didn’t make any sense; on any other day Maria couldn’t care less what Shaw thought or tried to do. In fact, it was her idea in the first place to ignore the orders that came in an envelope from Walsh.
“You’d just be painting a bigger target on your back,” she persisted. “If you’re here, you have a confirmable alibi. Flagg will vouch for you.”
Zero scoffed as he realized what was happening here. “Alan told you what happened.” It was the only explanation for Maria’s sudden change of heart. She tried her best not to give it away, but he could tell from the pained look in her eye that he was right.
But how? When? He was with them the whole time. Unless—of course. Alan had promised not to say anything to Maria. But he didn’t have to, because he could text her just as easily with the satellite phone while they were flying to Morocco.
He couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed.
“You told me you were fine,” she said. “You’re not.”
“I am,” he insisted. “It’s under control—”
“What if it gets you killed?”
“What if me not being there gets you killed?” he countered.
Maria scoffed. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That things will go south because Agent Zero isn’t around?”
“No! That’s not it. I…” How could he put it into words? How could he tell her that he was strugglin
g to reconcile their professional relationship with their personal one without it sounding like some kind of machismo? He didn’t think her incapable, nor Alan, neither by a long shot. It was just that…
It was just that she was right.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I’m afraid that something might happen to you and I’m not there. Not because I don’t think you can handle yourself. Not because I don’t think you’re a great agent. I just… I love you too much to let you go. It’s all in my head. I know that. But I’m not staying behind.”
Maria nodded slowly. “You’re right. It is all in your head. You’ve loved and lost before.”
Fresh guilt stabbed at him like a torn scab. Even after all this time he still felt the sting of Kate’s death. He wasn’t there for her. He couldn’t save her from the lethal dose of TTX administered by Agent John Watson, a man whom Zero had called a friend.
“But that doesn’t mean you’ll lose me too,” she insisted. “And it certainly isn’t worth putting yourself in unnecessary risk over.”
“I’m not just going to—”
“Don’t be selfish,” she interrupted. “Did you ever consider that I feel the same way about you? I don’t want something to happen to you out there that I can’t do anything about. If you’re here, I know you’re safe. If you’re out there, even if it’s with me, something could still happen. You could lose something important.” She took a step forward and grabbed his hand in both of hers. “Don’t you see? You had a great love of your life. You know what it feels like. I don’t. This is a first for me.”
“Don’t,” he said quietly. She wasn’t being fair to herself. “Don’t compare yourself to Kate. That’s not healthy for anyone. I know I’ve been more fortunate than most. They say lightning doesn’t strike twice, but it did for me. I’ve been…”
Wait a second.
“Fortunate…”
“Kent? You okay?”
Lightning. That’s it.
“Son of a bitch,” he murmured. “Get Penny on the phone, right now.”
Maria didn’t hesitate. She whipped out her sat phone and put it on speaker as she made the call.