Independence Day: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  A scratchy voice came over commo.

  “General Krug, I’m putting up live video. This is UAV 16-Y. We have a report of a suspicious-looking ship close to the coast, near Nador, Morocco.”

  “Roger, Major,” said Krug, scanning the plasma for the UAV, then reaching out and tapping a small icon. Suddenly, a grainy video started running on the plasma. It showed an empty stretch of water illuminated by the UAV’s powerful spotlight. A boat came into view. It was a motorboat, approximately forty feet long, with three uniformed men aboard. A hundred yards past them was a dilapidated fishing scow, running lights on, listing in the water, seemingly adrift.

  “Send them in,” said Krug. “Keep the bird overhead.”

  Krug and his men watched as the motorboat from the Moroccan Navy pulled up alongside the trawler and tied off.

  A Vietnamese flag was flying from the aft of the ship. Its name was painted on the stern: BIỂN THIÊN CHÚA.

  Sea God.

  Two of the officers scaled a steel ladder and climbed aboard. They moved to the wheelhouse, the image blurry but decent enough to capture their movement.

  Each officer clutched a submachine gun as he moved. A short time later, the two gunmen emerged, shaking their heads, indicating they’d found nothing.

  One of the men pointed at his helmet.

  “Patch him into commo,” said Krug, pointing to one of his staffers.

  The plasma cut into two live feeds. One was the UAV feed, the other was from a camera mounted to the officer’s helmet.

  The officers charged belowdecks, down a badly lit set of steel stairs. They moved along a dark hallway, opening door after door, finding nothing. Then, near the front of the ship, one of the officers opened a door, revealing a horrible scene of carnage. The ground was littered with the corpses of fishermen. The floor was a miasma of blood.

  The officers moved from corpse to corpse, searching for anyone still alive.

  “In the corner,” barked Krug, seeing a slight movement. “Get over there!”

  One of the officers stepped to a man in the corner. He was a young Vietnamese man. His chest was covered in blood. His eyes were shut. The officer shook him, softly at first, then with force, trying to wake him. The man opened his eyes.

  “Put it on speaker,” said Krug to the officer.

  The officer set his phone near the dying man’s ear.

  “Những gì họ muốn?” asked Krug.

  What did they want?

  The fisherman struggled to keep his eyes open.

  “Vật liệu nổ,” he said, coughing.

  “Explosives,” Krug, translated. He turned back to the image of the dying man on the screen.

  “Bạn bị tấn công cách đây bao lâu?”

  When were you attacked?

  “Dêm qua,” the Vietnamese man whispered.

  “Last night,” said Krug.

  Krug looked at the map. He took a ruler and did a quick calculation, estimating the time it took the trawler to travel from Sevastopol to Nador, then measuring the time between Nador and the Strait of Gibraltar.

  A dejected look appeared on his face. He glanced around the table.

  “Get Brubaker on the line,” said Krug. “Hector too. They’re through the strait. They have open water to the U.S. East Coast.”

  22

  CIA

  SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP

  BRIEFING COMMAND CENTER

  LANGLEY

  Calibrisi, Polk, and a half dozen other senior-level intelligence officials stepped into what looked like a small movie theater, with luxurious, reclining leather chairs arrayed in three ascending rows before a 140-inch screen.

  Already seated were six members of CIA paramilitary, the six men selected to go to Russia.

  Three wore tactical gear. These were the commandos who would lead Phase Line One: John Dowling, Dave Tosatti, and Benoit Fitzgerald. The other three men were dressed in casual clothing. This was the Phase Line Two team, and included Dewey, Bond, and Joe Oliveri.

  “Gentlemen, beginning approximately one week ago, signals intelligence indicated a dramatic increase in chatter across the terrorist complex concerning an impending high-target strike on the United States,” said Polk. “They have a name for it: they’re calling it ‘nine/twelve.’”

  The lights dimmed as the screen abruptly lit up with the only known images of Cloud they had: the Malnikov sketch, the nightclub photo, and two photos showing him with Katya Basaeyev.

  “His name is Cloud,” said Polk, pointing at the screen. “It’s an alias. He’s a computer hacker. Up to a week ago, he acquired a medium-sized Soviet-era nuclear bomb, capable of wiping out an area the size of downtown Boston. We believe he placed the device on a ship at the port of Sevastopol on the coast of Ukraine, and that the ship is now headed for the United States.”

  The screen flashed a photo of a modern glass-and-steel building set on a green lawn.

  “Early this morning, based on intelligence from NSA, we captured a scumbag and known Cloud associate named Al-Medi. Under interrogation, he coughed up where Cloud will be tomorrow evening. This is a dacha outside Moscow where he will be attending a dinner party. That’s why you’re here. Your job is to infiltrate the Russian theater and capture Cloud—alive.”

  Calibrisi turned and glanced at the photo of Cloud.

  “As of right now, Cloud is the only person who knows where that ship is going. We need to find him.”

  Calibrisi was silent for a few moments, scanning the six commandos with his eyes.

  “I like to think all CIA missions are important, and they are. But this one is quite obviously different. This was why you joined the military. This was why, forty years ago, I joined the military. It sounds like a cliché, but it happens to be true. Your country needs you right now. You’re the difference between the peace and stability, the silence, the calm, that Americans have come to know, and a catastrophe of untold horror, a catastrophe that will destroy families, neighborhoods, a catastrophe that will scar America for generations to come.”

  Calibrisi turned to Polk.

  “Mission architecture is still being designed,” said Polk. “We need to get you guys moving. Dowling, Tosatti, Fitzgerald: there’s a Black Hawk on the helipad. Wheels up in five. You’ll receive instructions on your way to Frankfurt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bond, Oliveri, you two are to go to CMG and get wardrobed. Then you’ll fly to Saint Petersburg.”

  Polk glanced at Bond, then Dewey.

  “Dewey, Hector and I need to see you in the director’s office.”

  23

  DIRECTOR’S OFFICE

  LANGLEY

  “Go ahead in, Dewey,” said Lindsay, Hector Calibrisi’s assistant. “They’re expecting you.”

  He pushed in the thick glass door. He stepped inside the CIA director’s expansive corner office, which looked out over a neatly manicured lawn and, behind it, a dense forest of sugar maples and birch trees rustling in the morning breeze. It was a bright, sunny summer day.

  Calibrisi was standing behind a rectangular glass-and-steel desk, sleeves rolled up, top button unbuttoned, leaning forward, scanning a document.

  Seated in front of Calibrisi’s desk was a bald man in a suit, with horn-rimmed glasses: Bill Polk.

  “What do you need?” asked Dewey.

  Dewey was dressed in an orange T-shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops.

  “We want to talk to you,” said Polk.

  “Sit down,” said Calibrisi.

  Dewey remained standing just inside the door.

  “It’s about Saint Petersburg,” said Polk.

  “Bill wants to take you off Saint Petersburg,” said Calibrisi. “I’m on the fence.”

  Dewey nodded.

  “What happened in Mexico?” asked Polk, shooting Dewey a cold stare.

  Dewey stared back at Polk, in silence. His eyes moved over and met Calibrisi’s.

  Behind Calibrisi, on the credenza, was a silver-framed pho
tograph of Jessica.

  “I froze up,” said Dewey. “It won’t happen again.”

  From behind his tortoiseshell glasses, Polk’s eyes darted to Calibrisi, who remained silent.

  “If something goes wrong in Moscow,” said Polk, “we’re relying on this man to perform at a level that right now he’s just not capable of.”

  “I’ll be fine, Bill,” said Dewey.

  “He’s on a team with one of our best agents,” added Calibrisi. “Pete asked for him.”

  Polk shook his head, then turned to Dewey.

  “You’re a talented operator. But right now, you’re damaged. You need to get your head back on straight, and a mission that could get very messy, very quickly, inside a dead zone, is not the place for mental therapy.”

  Dewey stared back at Polk, in silence, dumbfounded.

  “You know what the Russians do when they capture a NOC?” asked Polk.

  Polk looked back at Calibrisi. Calibrisi remained silent.

  “Fine, I’ll tell him. If Russia captures you downrange, inside their country, in the middle of an operation, you’ll never step foot outside Russia for the rest of your life. Never. We will be unable to retrieve you. They’ll wrench what information they can out of you. That’ll take about a month, then you’ll be shipped off to a gulag in the middle of Siberia, maybe Krasnokamensk, or even worse, one of the countless prisons that doesn’t have a name, a territory somewhere with a number on it.”

  Dewey stared down at the rug.

  “It gets better,” continued Polk. “They’ll put you to work in a uranium mine or they’ll use you for drug trials. If they determine you’re a flight risk, they’ll just kill you.”

  Dewey’s eyes found Calibrisi’s. He was like a father to Dewey. He could see it in his eyes. Dewey watched as, almost unconsciously, Calibrisi’s eyes moved away from him to the photo of Jessica.

  “I’m taking you off the operation,” said Calibrisi, breathing deeply. “I think Bill is right. I think you need a little more time.”

  Dewey felt a sharp kick to his stomach. He tried not to show any emotion. Only his hand betrayed him; it reached back and clutched the door handle, which he gripped tightly, trying to control his anger, frustration and, most of all, self-loathing. He knew they were right. He had only himself to blame.

  “I understand,” said Dewey. He turned to leave.

  “One more thing,” said Polk. “I’m placing you on a six-month internal administrative drop. You’ll be paid. We’ll call it a director’s project. I want you to go out to the clinic in Sedona. I’m not going to send you back into the field until you pass a psychological evaluation from Dr. Goldston.”

  “You’re not actually serious?” Dewey asked, incredulous.

  “Yeah, I’m serious,” said Polk. “I want you back, but you’re not ready. You need some help to deal with this.”

  “You call this bringing me back into the fold?” asked Dewey, looking at Calibrisi. “Protecting me? Is this what you had planned all along?”

  “No,” said Calibrisi.

  “I don’t need a fucking doctor. I need a gun and a mission.”

  Calibrisi bit his lip.

  “Go out to Andrews and get a jet,” said Polk. “I’ll have Mary make sure one of the Gulfstreams is ready when you get there.”

  Dewey nodded and pulled the door open. He turned one more time and looked at Calibrisi and Polk.

  “Good luck with the operation.”

  24

  LANGLEY

  Dewey walked down the hallway toward the elevators, scanning each office, passing various members of Calibrisi’s staff. Halfway down, he found an empty office. He looked up and down, then stepped inside. Dewey moved to the desk, quickly opening drawers until he found a set of car keys. He went back out, looking both ways, seeing no one.

  Dewey took the elevator to the basement, entering the cloister of rooms that housed Special Operations Group. From his locker, he picked up his backpack, which contained his mission gear for Saint Petersburg.

  He saw Bond, who was getting ready for the flight to Saint Petersburg.

  “You coming?” asked Bond.

  “No,” said Dewey.

  Bond stared at him for an extra second, a surprised look on his face.

  “You had to tell the truth,” said Dewey. “I would’ve done the same thing. Good luck over there. And thanks for asking for me.”

  * * *

  Dewey exited CIA headquarters through the south entrance, approaching the massive parking lot on the opposite side of the building where his pickup truck was parked. He stood in the shadow of the alcove, watching for several minutes, waiting. Other than a few people coming and going to their cars, he saw nothing unusual. He took out a thermal optical scope and scanned the area near his truck. There were two trackers, one seated in a car two cars away, the other in a different car several rows back and to the left of his truck.

  Bill’s not fucking around.

  Dewey took the set of stolen keys. He hit the Unlock button, but nothing happened. He stooped and moved along the edge of the first row of cars, banging his thumb at the button. Finally, he heard a dull click. Turning, he eyed the flashing lights of a minivan. He walked to it, climbed in, then drove slowly to the exit, studying the rearview mirror for the trackers.

  He didn’t know what to expect as he handed his ID to a uniformed guard at the exit, but it didn’t matter; he didn’t have a choice.

  The guard swiped it, then handed it back.

  Suddenly, in the rearview mirror, Dewey eyed movement. One of the cars pulled out. It was soon followed by the other.

  “Officer, can I ask you a question?” asked Dewey.

  “Sure.”

  “If I saw a guy drinking in his car just now—”

  “Drinking what?”

  “It looked like a bottle of Jack Daniel’s,” said Dewey. “I don’t mean to be a tattletale, but I’d hate to have an Agency employee get a DUI or God forbid hurt someone. That’s the kind of publicity we could do without.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said the officer, waving Dewey through.

  Dewey pulled through the gates of the CIA, watching in his mirror as the guard stepped out of the booth along with two other guards. All three held their hands up, stopping the car. Dewey registered blond hair, sunglasses, a mustache, and a frustrated punch against the steering wheel as he sped left onto Colonial Farm Road.

  The trackers would expect him to take one of two busy routes out of the area, Dolley Madison Boulevard or the Georgetown Pike.

  At the end of Colonial Farm Road, he went straight, passing signs that said THE POTOMAC SCHOOL, driving up through the verdant grass lawns that formed the campus. As he drove, he reached into the backpack and removed his SOG Escape Knife. He parked the minivan in a row of cars near the school, climbed out, and looked for the oldest car he could find, a red Dodge Charger. He smashed the hilt of the knife against the back window, then popped the lock and climbed in the front seat. Working quickly, he tore the plastic cover off the steering column, then found the harness connector and, inside it, a bundle of wires. He separated the battery, ignition, and starter wires from the bundle, then connected the ignition wire to the battery wire, twisting them together. Last, he touched the starter wire to the other wires. The engine rumbled to life. Dewey cranked the steering wheel hard in both directions, breaking the steering lock. Within two minutes, he was on the Beltway, heading north.

  Dewey felt a sense of warmth as he escaped his CIA followers. A sense of mission, almost primal. The feeling he had was like a fever, a compulsion: he had to go to Russia. Perhaps he’d only observe the operation from afar, but he could never live with himself if he sat on the sidelines while America was attacked.

  He drove north on 95, staring at the endless monotony of cars in both directions, keeping an eye out for trackers.

  Polk thought he was burned out and scared. Dewey didn’t blame him for thinking that. Nor did he blame Calibrisi for removing
him from the operation.

  Dewey hadn’t been able to protect Jessica. He thought by hunting down her killers—by getting revenge—he would be able to heal his wounds. But revenge was a temporary tonic at best. What Dewey sought was redemption. It wouldn’t come by running away, or lying on a couch somewhere. Redemption meant fighting for those he loved and for the country he loved. But to do it, he would need to get to Russia. And right now, there was no way he could get on a plane without being snared at the first TSA checkpoint he hit. He needed help.

  At a gas station outside Philadelphia, Dewey purchased a disposable international cell phone. He dialed as he steered the car back onto 95 North.

  “Yes,” came a German accent. “Who is this? It’s four thirty in the morning.”

  “Hi, Rolf,” said Dewey.

  25

  LONDON

  “Dewey Andreas,” said Borchardt, almost spitting the words out. “The last time I saw you, you were about to hit my head with the butt of your gun.”

  “That’s weird,” said Dewey. “Last time I saw you, you were unconscious and your head was bleeding.”

  Rolf Borchardt was the most powerful arms dealer in the world. From his London headquarters, he was involved in arms deals all over the world, with virtually every government. He bought and sold weapons, weapons systems, ammunition, and information. He dealt with democracies and with dictators. He even dealt with terrorists. It was the sale of information that had brought Dewey and Borchardt together. Borchardt had sold a photograph of Dewey to Aswan Fortuna. Borchardt had also betrayed Dewey to Chinese Intelligence, though Dewey had anticipated it.

  Yet despite his perfidy, Borchardt had also helped Dewey on numerous occasions. It was a complicated relationship. Dewey could have killed Borchardt many times but had chosen not to. Borchardt possessed a unique set of tools that could occasionally be very helpful.

  “I still have a scar,” said Borchardt.