by Sam Powers
March had prepared for the speech his entire life, really. He’d been using his flair for oratory and drama to advance his political perspectives since long before his days in office. As a businessman and lawyer, he’d once been a powerful fundraiser and PAC chairman for the Republicans. Before that, he’d been a Young Republican, and before, a high school student council president. It was in his nature, and he knew he would seize the moment yet again.
He glanced absently at the newspaper on his nightstand. There was a campaign story on the front page, an assertion that he remained nine points behind, a woeful figure in the modern age of a split electorate. Given everything he’d been accused of in the month prior, he was wryly surprised the party hadn’t asked him to step aside at the last moment; at one point, a week earlier, he’d been down eighteen, wondering if everything he’d worked towards had been torn from him.
But he’d never quit before in politics, and he’d maintained appropriate results. He’d never given up until the war was won.
NEW WINDSOR, NEW YORK
The director was down the steps from the plane to the tarmac almost as quickly as they were lowered, moving spryly for a man in his late sixties. Jonah rushed behind him to keep up. A series of cars waited nearby, a rolling operations center for the forty minutes it would take to get to the target location.
Representatives from the SEAL counter-terrorism unit DEVGRU and the Army counterpart Delta Force were waiting by the cars, a pair of sharply dressed officers; their expressions were stone slabs of serious intent.
The director shook each’s hand in turn. “Colonel Ellis. Lt. Col. Hirsh. This is my assistant, Jonah Tarrant; he’ll be in on all of the decisions today. Are we ready to roll?”
“Yes sir,” the Navy man Hirsh said. “We’ve got eyes on target and are establishing recon, including locking down body numbers with thermal and establishing our best entry and exit points.”
“Good. And the reporter, Alex Malone?”
“She doesn’t seem to be on scene, sir. And her phone has been turned off.”
That wasn’t so good, Wilkie thought. “Any word from Agent Brennan yet?”
“No sir. But there are signs of a disturbance at the location. There’s a guard posted in front of the target location, several more behind, and there’s significant damage to the front of the building, along with a damaged vehicle in the lot that looks like it might have been the cause.”
“Jonah?” the director asked.
“One of Brennan’s operational MOs has been to neutralize the opposition’s numerical advantage via significant distraction; he might have been improvising.”
The director turned back to the military men. “Technical support?”
“We’ve got two leading weapons experts on scene as well as a former member of Team Six who has since taken a degree in nuclear engineering. We’re in a position to disarm as soon as we control the building. But there’s an issue.”
“Yes?”
Jonah interrupted. “They can’t tell what the status of the device is, or whether the people who brought it here are fanatical enough to actually detonate it. They may have some sort of failsafe switch or quick trigger…”
The director understood the ramifications. “So any attempt to go in hot and they might blow the thing?”
“Yes sir,” the young lieutenant colonel said. “That’s pretty much the sum of it.”
“Then we need to know what’s going on inside that warehouse, gentlemen,” the director said, heading for the cars. “Let’s get going.”
Brennan awoke to a sudden, sharp pain. He glanced down to his left hand, which was tied to the arm of the wooden desk chair with a plastic restraint. His right hand was similarly immobilized, but it was his left that hurt, because the Korean agent had just run the razor-sharp blade of a knife over it. A thin incision was beginning to bleed badly, droplets running down the side of his hand and wrist.
The place sounded quiet, near empty.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Park said. She had a strange look on her face, he thought, like an excited child. “We haven’t much time and I debated just shooting you both, but I need to know if I can expect any more company.”
He blinked, his head still ringing from a rifle butt blow, and looked around the area. The technicians were all gone, save two men working on the final portion of the casing. Alex was sitting a few feet away, also tied to a chair, still unconscious. His first thought was that she might be seriously hurt; his second was that he wanted to let her know just what he thought of her decision to go walkabout.
“This is the part where I tell you it’s insane to set off a nuclear weapon...”
“… And I tell you that the west is decadent, and corrupt, and needs to be purged of its arrogance once and for all.”
“Yeah… that part,” Brennan said. “Park, you know they’ll make sure you go up with this place…”
“I’m aware of my fate,” she said.
“This place is quiet. At least you let the workers go,” he said, trying to gauge their numbers.
“We only need a handful here to ensure everything goes as planned. There was no reason to keep them.”
“How big of you.”
“I’ve prepared for today for a long time, we all have. This is an opportunity to assail evil, Mr. Brennan, to leave my mark on the world as someone who was willing to die for what she believed in. How do you suppose you’ll convince me otherwise?”
“Leave your mark? For every nut job who agrees with you, a thousand normal people will remember you as a homicidal maniac.”
“A thousand fools, a thousand dead souls on the American treadmill of productivity over purpose, of self over community and family and tradition, of profit over honor.”
“That’s the narrative they’ve taught you, sure,” he said. “Want to hear the one they’ve taught us about you? How North Koreans are all mindless zombies, soulless robots who do the bidding of a tyrannical, psychotic narcissist?”
She smiled smugly. “Your attempt at psychological influence is amusing, Mr. Brennan. Are you so far gone yourself, so subservient to the agency that you don’t consider your own fate, or that of your colleague? I’m ready to die for what I believe in, Mr. Brennan. Are you?”
“I guess we’re going to find out,” he said. “Because I’m not telling you shit.” If he was lucky, Brennan thought, the commotion involving the car had been enough of a surprise to prompt Alex to make the call. If he was unlucky, they were both dead anyway. Either way, he had no immediate option but to stall.
“Why here? Why not in another major center, where the death toll would be even higher? Why not L.A. or Dallas, or D.C?”
She had a look of rapturous fanaticism when she spoke. “New York is the heart of the American financial empire, the belly of the beast. Had our associates not failed in their earlier task and assembled the device yesterday, it would have been midtown Manhattan. But killing millions of your fellow vermin and making New York uninhabitable for a few decades will have to do. It will also send a message to the rest of the world that North Korea is a nuclear power, and not afraid to defend its values.”
“Values?” She was completely insane, he thought. “Is that why Khalidi hired you?”
She smiled at that, not biting at the attempt to identify her employer. “You’re joking, surely?”
A few feet away, Alex began to stir. “Your friend is going to wake up in a few minutes. Or… is she?” Park asked. She walked over to Alex then took the pistol out of her belt holster. “Let’s say you aren’t afraid of death, Mr. Brennan. I’m sure you’d rather I didn’t kill your lovely friend. So why don’t you tell me what we can expect between now and a half-hour from now?”
She pointed the .45 at Alex’s head.
Brennan said, “So? If you’re really planning on setting off that thing, neither of us has much time left anyway.” He was pulling his wrists away from the chair arms, trying to work the restraints loose. But they were designed to b
e unbreakable and he wasn’t making any progress.
“No? Okay, I’ll just shoot her…” She placed the barrel against Alex’s temple.
“No...! Look, it’s not going to make a difference what I tell you. I was listening to your conversation. There’s no way they’ll arrive before your handlers can make that phone call and trigger it. There’s no reason to do that.”
Park appeared to be weighing her options when a guard ran up to her. “Sir, you need to see this. We’ve got a situation outside. It looks like we might have some sort of law enforcement around the perimeter of the property.”
She smiled at Brennan. “Hours, eh Mr. Brennan? Don’t go anywhere until I get back,” she said, before following the guard toward the front of the building.
Brennan knew he only had seconds. He couldn’t break the restraints, but that didn’t mean the chair was equally tough. He leaned forward and stood up, the chair suspended from his arms. Then he pushed off the ground as hard as he could, jumping up and backwards, so that his full weight came down on the chair’s frame. The hard edges banged into him like a battering ram, but the chair shattered as they hit the floor, pieces flying in multiple directions. He ignored the pain in his back; it felt like he’d broken a rib, but Brennan didn’t have time to complain. He shook off the loose wood from the chair arms then headed quickly over towards Alex.
He was about to try and untie her when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, the flash of chrome from a muzzle being raised. Instead, he pushed Alex’s chair over, banking that she’d be safer from gunfire lying on her side; then he rolled out of the way even as Park and the guard opened fire, the bullets pinging off of the walls and concrete, one even ricocheting off the bomb casing. Before they could fully round the corner he was to his feet, balanced and ready. The guard rushed into the area, rifle out in front of him. Brennan grabbed the barrel, shoving it at first down and then, once the gun butt was squarely under the man’s chin, back up towards him, taking the man out with one hard thrust.
He stepped sideways quickly as Park fired two more shots, both missing, then spun into a low leg sweep, taking her feet out from under her, the pistol flying into the corner of the work space.
Park sprung to her feet from her back almost as soon as she hit the ground, at the ready. She crouched low, feet slightly at each side, knees apart, one first splayed across her torso, the other held high to block or offer an open palm technique.
Brennan took a deep, cleansing breath. “Chen style? I hate Chen style.”
“Most people do,” she said, as they circled each other. “It’s hard to hit what you can’t touch.”
He struck quickly, lunging in with a front kick, trying to use his size and speed advantage to close the gap between them before she could react. But instead of moving, Park twisted at the waist with the speed and dexterity of a diver, making herself small, his foot brushing by her. She shifted her weight to her inside foot and kept the rotation going but pulled it in tight, so that she was spinning around his torso in the same motion, her foot pirouetting three hundred and sixty degrees, the torque at her waist snapping it around like a whip, catching Brennan flush in the right hip, striking a nerve and instantly numbing it.
He stumbled sideways as she readjusted her stance, ready for a rapid rebuttal. Brennan shook the blow off. “And that’s why I hate Chen style,” he muttered. “It’s like getting your ass kicked by a ballerina.”
She said nothing, turning her torso away from him to the left as she stepped in, then to the right, his concentration fixed on her body movements and losing track of her hands. A flurry of punches followed, part of a prescribed pattern, Brennan able to block more than a dozen blows in quick succession before, inevitably, one broke through his defense, the open palm catching him in the solar plexus. He turned slightly just at the point of contact, absorbing some of the blow’s strength and avoiding having his wind knocked out, settling instead with half-losing his balance, stumbling backwards. She followed up smoothly with a solid kick to the side of his knee, which he felt give slightly, an instant sprain that send a shock of pain through the nerve.
Brennan backed away, half-limping, creating as much distance as she’d immediately allow. Her technique was near-perfect, he thought. It made it difficult to go on the offensive; Chen style allowed an expert practitioner to use his or her opponent’s weight against them, using locking holds to throw them off balance followed by rapid strikes derived from Chinese boxing.
So he motioned for her to advance, cupping his hand upside down, fingers beckoning her forward. “If that’s the best you’ve got,” Brennan said, “this isn’t going to last long.”
That annoyed Park, and she charged in again, shifting her focus at the last second to his midsection, a flurry of open palm blows designed to weaken his legs via nerve and gut strikes. On the last flurry, as he backed away blocking, Brennan turned sideways, allowing the punch to drift past him, using its momentum to take her by the wrist, turning his hips quickly to toss her half way across the room.
Park absorbed the throw expertly, landing hard but recovering quickly, rolling back to her feet. “Judo? Against a Korean? That’s a little on-the-nose isn’t it, Mr. Brennan?”
“I’ll take whatever you give me,” he said. The truth was, Brennan was an expert; but Park was a master. Her movements looked silken, they were so smooth.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alex stirring, trying to fight her bonds. If he was lucky, Brennan thought, she’d manage to get free on her own then get the hell out of there.
The distraction nearly cost him, Park reaching in a smooth motion for her ankle, a throwing knife tossed backhanded as he looked away, the blade skimming by his chin before it lodged in the crate behind him. He pulled it out of the wood and tossed it aside in a show of mock contempt, making sure it landed near Alex. “Time for us to stop playing around, Park,” he said. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
It was time to go on the offensive; counterattacking hadn’t been working, Brennan reasoned. He took a half-step forward then heard the sound just behind and to his left, ducking at the last second as the guard behind him opened fire, the bullets tearing through the nearby table tops. Brennan pushed off the floor, sliding backwards along the polished concrete so that he was beneath the man, facing up. He slammed a pair of fists into the man’s groin, and the guard went down in a weeping mess, clutching his bruised privates.
The man’s rifle clattered to the ground beside him, and Brennan quickly grabbed it. He turned, saying, “Got any more help around…”
It was as far as he’d get; Park pistol-whipped him from behind, sending Brennan back into dreamland.
17./
“What’s the situation, colonel?”
The director was fatigued and had been working since six that morning; but he had no intention of showing it. They’d set up a command post across the parking lot in a tent. The building was surrounded and a pair of Delta Force operatives had gone in for a closer look.
The colonel pointed to the building as he talked. “A truck pulled out about an hour ago with nearly two dozen mercs inside and a bunch of eggheads, maybe Chinese. We waited until they reached the avenue before taking them in. They’re being gone over now by an interrogation unit to see what we can get out of them quickly. We’ve got two guards remaining, at least, there and there, front and side. We’ve got a third in the rafters who will be tough to neutralize; the position is well guarded, above a steel eye-beam. In the back we’ve got four heat signatures, but three of them are on the ground and perhaps unconscious.”
“Eyes on any of our people?”
“Negative, sir. The interior is arranged to make surveillance extremely difficult. With your permission, we’d like to drill a hole for a fiber optic line near the back of the warehouse, so that we can get a proper look.”
“What kind of exposure would that create?”
“Some noise, but minimal. We use a special drill, extremely slow and quie
t.”
“How long?”
“Perhaps ten minutes.”
The director checked his watch. It was ten minutes before twelve. “Jonah?” he asked.
“They could be looking at midnight as a target time,” Jonah said. “Or they could wait until the Fourth is in full swing tomorrow, get the maximum psychological effect.”
The director reserved his impatience. “That’s two options. What do you think they’re most likely…”
“I think they could do it at any moment,” Jonah said. “And if they’re professionals, they’ll be aware by now that we’re out here. So time is against us.”
The colonel could tell where the conversation was headed. “I don’t want to send eyes in there blind, sir,” he said. “We’ve had too many past instances where…”
The director held up both hands. “Peace, colonel, peace. Jonah’s not trying to override your idea; we’re just considering the timing. Ten minutes may be five minutes more than we’ve got.”
“We have an alternative,” the colonel said. “We can send in a robot. If we’ve got eyes on us already, the worst that happens is we lose the unit. Best case, it gets to the back of the building and gives us a good look.”
“Do it quickly, colonel,” the director said. “And have your teams ready to go in five.”
Malone woke in stuttering fashion, her eyes barely able to open; her head pounded from the force of the rifle blow and her right shoulder felt numb from the weight of leaning on the nerve for too long.
She was on her side, she realized. Her hands were still bound to the chair; she pivoted her head around and could just see enough to know Joe was unconscious on the floor nearby. There was someone else there, too; a guard, maybe? She tried to shift her position slowly, pulling the chair along with her, doing it slowly to avoid making noise. She managed to turn it forty-five degrees, enough to see the Korean woman working on the device.