To the left of the door, Julian Day sat cowering in the corner, hugging his knees to his chest. The counsel for the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence stared at the mangled bodies of the Iranians, eyes wide and his face frozen in terror. Flecks of blood covered his right arm and shoulder.
“What happened to the third Tango?” Garin asked Joe.
“Only two were here. I shot the two that were standing and tried to avoid the skinny guy like you said. He might’ve gotten nicked by some shot, but he’ll be fine.”
Garin looked at the slightly open window with no screen and understood: Hendrix. Taras Bor, the former Omega operator, had recognized the song and the singing. He’d come to the logical conclusion that Garin wouldn’t have assaulted the cabin without overwhelming force, and coldly made the most rational decision. He was gone and would not be found.
Garin’s cell vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, answered curtly, and heard a familiar voice. “You still playing Lone Ranger or is it safe to come in?” Dwyer asked.
“I thought it was you out there but was a little worried it might somehow be the FBI,” Garin said. “It’s clear. Everyone moving in here’s a friendly.” Garin ended the call.
“Cavalry?” Joe asked.
Garin nodded. “Go take care of your family.”
As Joe hobbled painfully down the hallway, Garin called after him. “Hey, Sergeant Major.”
Joe turned.
“I’m glad you married my sister.”
Garin stuck his SIG back into his waistband, noticing for the first time that he’d been grazed by a shot at the right hip. He walked over to Day, who recoiled as Garin grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet.
“Shape up, Julian. We’ve got work to do.”
—
Garin pulled Day along the hall and down the stairs to the living room, where half a dozen of Dwyer’s black-clad men were moving efficiently about—searching, then covering the bodies of the Iranians and administering first aid to Olivia, Katy, and the kids. Dwyer stood in the middle of the room, flanked by two men carrying M110 sniper rifles. The man on the left was Matt. Although he’d never met the man on Dwyer’s right, Garin recognized him in an instant.
“Meet the man who saved your life,” Dwyer said as Congo Knox extended his hand. Garin stood motionless, bewildered. Slowly, he relaxed his grip on Day and moved warily toward Knox.
Dwyer, recognizing Garin’s hesitation, said, “Mikey, of all days, today’s Congo’s first with DGT.” Dwyer chuckled nervously. “Baptism by fire. You know he’s no longer with Delta? We signed him up this morning and he wasn’t slated to start with us until next month, but I played a hunch. He didn’t have to come on this assignment, yet he agreed right away when I told him what it was. Heck, he insisted on coming. He took out the shooter who had you dead to rights.”
“Mike, Congo Knox,” the sniper said, hand still outstretched. “Dan told me you thought you saw me in New York and D.C. You were right. He still brought me aboard, figuring the assignment to take you out wasn’t my call. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and probably want to punch me. Maybe worse. But I don’t know where the order to take you out came from. An order like that doesn’t originate at Bragg or MacDill. But that’s the extent of my knowledge.”
After several long seconds, Garin grasped Knox’s hand. “I’m not going to make happy talk with you right now. Even though it wasn’t your call, it’ll take a while to process. And, yeah, I may have to clock you to get it out of my system. But I understand. Unfortunately. Been there.” Garin turned and glared at Julian Day. “I have an idea who might know where the order came from, though.”
Garin then pointed at Dwyer. “Just when were you planning on telling me you were bringing the guy who was supposed to kill me to DGT?”
Dwyer looked sheepish. “Mikey, like I said, it all happened in the last twenty-four. The word in the community was Congo was becoming a free agent, so we tracked him down as fast as we could. Found him down at the Green Beret Parachute Club. Figured it was better to have him on our side than on someone else’s ticket. So we took him off the market. Hey, in the end he saved your life.”
Garin did not look placated.
“What about Bor?” Dwyer asked, anxious to change the subject.
“Gone.”
“I’ll send some men after him.”
“Forget it, you won’t find him, even with NVGs. He had a plan, and he’s prepared for just this.”
Garin saw Katy approaching from the other side of the room and turned back to Knox. “We’ll talk,” Garin said as he pulled Day forward and thrust him toward Dwyer. “Keep an eye on him for me, will you, Dan?”
Katy crossed the room and embraced Garin. “Not bad, little brother,” Katy said, trying with surprising success to remain composed. “Pop would be proud.”
“Not bad yourself. It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” Garin said drily, “because you’re one scary chick.” He tilted his head toward Kimmy, Nicholas, and Alex, who were hugging Joe. “Traumatic situation. How do you think they’ll hold up?”
“They’re kids.” She shrugged. “They’re resilient. I’m sure there’ll be a nightmare or two. We’ll talk to them, probably with Father Augustine and Sister Frances Marie. But trust me, within a week it will be Kimmy, Nicholas, and Alex’s excellent adventure. They’ll be the envy of all the neighborhood kids. And on top of that their dad’s a hero.”
“Ah, yeah, about that . . .”
“Don’t worry. We won’t let them talk . . . much. You think you’re the only one with a brain in this family? No ‘operational details,’ as you call it. Just the part where Dad saves them. Heck, that’s all they really know anyway.”
Even as Katy spoke, Kimmy, Nicholas, and Alex, showing little evidence of being shaken, gravitated to the imposing figure of Congo Knox, whose smart salutes they repeatedly returned with increasing precision and enthusiasm. The Burns family’s version of crisis therapy, thought Garin.
Noticing Katy looking over his shoulder, Garin glanced back and saw Olivia, still visibly jarred, standing behind him.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, Michael,” Olivia murmured, her eyes watering. “I just wanted to say thank you. You were . . . Well, thank you.”
“I guessed you two probably knew one another,” Katy said as she brushed by Garin to comfort Olivia. Embracing the aide to the national security advisor, Katy looked expectantly at her brother. “Mike?”
“I’ll make introductions all around later,” Garin said, trying his best not to sound brusque. “But right now we need to take care of some urgent business. Olivia, I assume you can reach Brandt?”
“Yes.”
“Stand by. I’m going to”—Garin searched for the right word—“debrief Julian Day.”
Garin walked over to where Day was standing between Dwyer and Knox. The kids immediately left Knox and hugged Garin’s legs.
“Awesome, Uncle Mike!” Nicholas squealed. So much for trauma.
“I had my eye on you guys,” Garin said, tousling their hair. “You’re the bravest soldiers I’ve seen in a long time.” He gently pried them from his legs and steered them back toward Knox. “Right now Uncle Mike’s got some work to do. We’ll catch up in a little bit. Okay?”
Garin turned to Dwyer. “Dan, have some of your men take the Burns family back up to the rental office,” he said quietly as he grabbed Day by the arm. “I don’t want them to hear what happens next.”
“Got it, Mikey. But do what you have to do fast. I figure you’ve got no more than”—Dwyer examined his watch—“fifteen minutes before every CIA, DIA, and FBI agent within one hundred miles shows up.”
Garin jerked Day roughly down the hallway toward the kitchen. Olivia, alarmed at the sight, tried to follow, but Dwyer placed his substantial frame between her and the kitchen. The dour look on his normall
y agreeable face told her not to press the issue.
Upon reaching the kitchen, Garin slapped Day hard across the face, causing him to stagger against the refrigerator. The lawyer, nerves already frayed from Bor’s interrogation, yelped as much from dread as from pain. Grasping Day with one hand, Garin ripped through the drawers under the expansive kitchen counter until he found a stainless steel cleaver. He turned to Day.
“Let’s review, Julian. With your assistance, Taras Bor and his Quds Force friends killed every single member of my team, a team vital to protecting America’s national security interests. They were good men, good Americans. Doing a job you despised and hounded them for, but without which you wouldn’t be able to go to the theater, grocery store, or ladies’ room without fear of getting blown to bits.” The words, though spoken quietly, were steeped in unmistakable malice.
“You also assisted Bor and his goons in kidnapping my sister’s family, using them as bait and insurance against an attack by me. They beat my brother-in-law half to death and abused my sister, niece, and nephews. I have no doubt they would’ve killed them all once they’d served their purpose.” Garin seized Day’s right wrist. As he spoke, Day avoided looking at Garin’s eyes and the cleaver in his hand.
“Now, you’re going to tell me how you did that and who assisted you. But before you do, you’re going to tell me everything I need to know about the EMP attack that’s going to hit us. You didn’t think we knew about that, did you? Of course you didn’t. How could we? We’re just ignorant grunts, tools of American hegemony, exploiting and violating the rights of kind, peace-loving people everywhere. While you, on the other hand, are the brilliant legal avenger, making the world safe for the perpetually aggrieved, the righteously entitled, and the morally superior.”
Garin’s voice grew softer as he spoke. Day, bizarrely, found himself straining to hear what Garin was saying, lest he miss a threat of imminent disfigurement.
“Here’s how this is going to work, Julian,” Garin continued. “Speed is critical. So first you’ll give me the big picture: time of the attack, where it’s coming from, and where it’s going to hit. Then we’ll get into the enemy’s delivery vehicles, countermeasures, stuff like that. Finally, we’ll talk about how and with whom you orchestrated all of this.”
Day struggled futilely as Garin held the lawyer’s right hand atop the granite counter. A foul odor wafted into the air. Garin angled the blade above Day’s pinky finger, using the edge of the counter as a fulcrum.
“If you lie, a finger comes off. If I think you’re lying, a finger comes off. If you hold back anything whatsoever, a finger comes off. Got it?”
Day clenched his fingers protectively. Garin responded by repositioning the cleaver over Day’s wrist. “All right,” Garin whispered. “Then this is how we’ll play it. If you lie, a hand comes off. If I think you’re lying, a hand comes off . . .”
“Please,” the terrified attorney pleaded, sounding utterly drained and defeated. “This isn’t necessary. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
Garin drew his face to within inches from Day’s and studied the man’s eyes for several seconds. There was no deceit, no resistance, only exhaustion and resignation.
Garin returned the blade to the drawer, pulled Day to the doorway, and called out to the living room. “Olivia, get in here right away.”
—
No one present in the Situation Room was sitting. It was a maelstrom of nervous energy.
After receiving a call from SecDef Merritt approximately twenty minutes earlier, Marshall had recalled to the White House all the attendees from the earlier meeting. Merritt had just received a call from Dan Dwyer, head of DGT, advising that he and his men had located James Brandt’s senior aide, Olivia Perry, at a cabin along the Chesapeake. Dwyer informed him that his snipers were positioned around the cabin and were prepared to engage hostiles. Secretary Merritt was well aware that he didn’t have the authority to give Dwyer’s men the green light but calculated that there wasn’t any time to send the matter through appropriate channels. Deciding to act and deal with the consequences later, Merritt granted Dwyer permission to engage. What Merritt hadn’t known at the time was that Dwyer had placed the call a full minute after Matt and Congo Knox had already taken out the two Quds Force operatives in front of the living room window. Dwyer, too, believed it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Minutes before everyone had assembled in the Situation Room, Prime Minister Chafetz had called Marshall to inform the president that Israeli F-15 and F-16 stealth fighters were manned, fueled, and prepared to strike Iran. Israeli agents and electronic surveillance had identified a frenzy of activity at suspected Iranian missile sites. Silos at two sites appeared hot. Marshall, in turn, informed Chafetz that the Fifth Fleet’s USS Eisenhower carrier strike group was closing in and would provide any support Chafetz requested.
Shortly after Merritt had spoken to Dwyer, Brandt received a call on his cell phone from Olivia, stating that she had reliable information on the Iranian EMP plans. Brandt informed Marshall, who directed White House Communications Agency Major Clayton Cord to arrange a secure call back to Olivia in sixty seconds and to place the call on the Situation Room speaker. Major Cord’s voice came over the speaker.
“Mr. President, we are now connecting to Ms. Perry.”
There was a click, then: “Mr. President?”
“Ms. Perry, this is President Marshall. You are on the speaker in the White House Situation Room. Among those present are Secretary of Defense Merritt, Secretary of State Lawrence, Director of National Intelligence Antonetti, DCI Scanlon, Joint Chiefs Chairman Taylor, and Jim Brandt.
“We’re all grateful that you’re all right. Jim tells me you have information on a planned Iranian EMP strike on Israel. As a preliminary matter, Ms. Perry, what makes you believe that the information is reliable?”
“Mr. President.” Olivia’s voice sounded strong and confident to everyone in the room except the person who knew her best. Brandt recognized that Olivia was both nervous and scared. “The information comes from Senate Intelligence counsel Julian Day, who confesses to working with the Russians and, by extension, the Iranians, to coordinate an EMP strike.”
Expressions of amazement covered the faces in the Situation Room. “And how did you obtain this information?” Marshall asked.
“Mr. President, Michael Garin obtained the information from Day. Mr. Garin is standing next to me right now.” The expressions of amazement became more pronounced. Several individuals leaned toward the speaker.
“Where is Mr. Day at this moment?”
“He’s in another room nearby, guarded by DGT personnel.”
Marshall scanned the faces of everyone in the room. A few nodded as if to somehow validate the legitimacy of the information Perry was about to convey.
“Okay, Ms. Perry. Time is of the essence. Just give me the headlines.”
“Mr. President, within the next eight hours, Iran will launch several missiles, all but one of which carries a nuclear warhead with a yield approximating the bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Missiles will be launched—I’m having Dan Dwyer forward the precise coordinates to Secretary Merritt and General Taylor as we speak—from sites in northern Iran between the Caspian Sea and the North Alborz Protected Area . . . and all but one of the missiles will detonate over various targets in Israel.”
“All but one?” Marshall asked.
“Yes, Mr. President. The final missile, with a one-megaton yield, will be launched toward the United States. It’s set to detonate at an altitude of one hundred twenty miles somewhere between Kansas City and Chicago, creating an electromagnetic pulse that will cover two-thirds of the continental United States.”
The room fell into stunned silence for several seconds as its occupants sought to absorb the enormity of what they’d just heard.
As multiple questions
began to percolate among them, James Brandt knifed through the confusion. “Olivia,” Brandt said. “Jim here. Two questions: Iran’s missiles do not have the capability of hitting the United States. They can barely be certain to hit Israel with any degree of accuracy. Am I correct in assuming that the Russians provided that capability to the Iranians?”
“That’s correct, Professor. The Russians and North Koreans have been working with the Iranians for the last two and a half years—Day says to modify the Shahab-3, increasing both distance and accuracy as well as modifying the Shahab’s payload capacity for a larger warhead to detonate over the US.”
“Second,” Brandt resumed, “an Iranian nuclear strike on Israel can destroy enough of that country’s strategic capacity that Iran could survive a retaliatory strike. But surely the Iranians know that they wouldn’t even make a dent in our nuclear capability, and a retaliatory strike by the United States would annihilate them. How does Day explain that?”
“The Iranians don’t know they’re hitting us,” Olivia replied.
“What in the world do you mean, Ms. Perry?” Marshall asked.
“Just a moment, Mr. President,” Olivia said, handing Dwyer’s phone to Garin.
“Pardon me, Mr. President. This is Mike Garin. Sir, the Iranians don’t know that one of the missiles is targeted at the United States because the Russians controlled the project—the development of the nuclear missiles. They never let the Iranians get near the computers, guidance, telemetry, or anything but the material for the warhead. And they let them work on the warhead only because they didn’t want the payload’s nuclear signature to be Russian.
“The Iranians believe all the missiles are targeted toward Israel. The strike will all but obliterate their enemy. Iran is willing to accept the losses from whatever limited retaliatory strike Israel may be able to mount. The mullahs believe they’ll be heroes for destroying Israel.
“The Russians, for their part, will have total deniability regarding the EMP attack on the United States. The United States and every other country in the world will be tracking the missile launch from Iran that detonates over the United States. Everyone will blame Iran. It’s an Iranian missile, launched by Iran, from Iranian soil.
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