“Mr. President, the missile aimed at the United States is located inside a foothill near Mount Azad Kuh, south of Chalus. To my knowledge, it’s not a site previously identified by either the CIA or Mossad. There are two other sites previously unknown to us located at Shahrud and another at Gorgan. Those sites, among others, will hit Israeli targets.”
“Mr. Garin, one moment, please,” Marshall said.
The president pointed at Secretary Merritt and Chairman Taylor. “Gentlemen, I gather you have the location for this Mount Azad Kuh?”
“Yes, sir,” the men responded in unison.
“Do anything and everything you have to do to destroy that site right now. Go.”
The two men moved rapidly toward secure phones at the other end of the room. Marshall pointed to Ted Lawrence. “Tell Prime Minister Chafetz everything we’ve just heard. Wait until the Pentagon informs you that our forces are in the air, and then inform our NATO allies, starting with the Brits. Meanwhile, I’ll have a talk with President Mikhailov personally. Have Carole Tunney demand an emergency meeting of the Security Council. Go.”
Marshall then turned to his chief of staff. “Iris, we’ll need to address the American people contemporaneously with our attack. Have our—”
The president abruptly stopped speaking. He and everyone else in the room were startled by the distinct sound of multiple gunshots coming over the speaker.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
EASTERN SHORE, MARYLAND
JULY 17 • 11:21 P.M. EDT
By the time Garin got there, it was over. Dwyer, Knox, and Matt were standing on the right side of the living room, still holding their pistols. Two other DGT men stood behind them. Differing degrees of disbelief registered on their faces.
Julian Day lay dead on the other side of the living room. Several entry wounds were grouped around his chest and abdomen.
Garin lowered his weapon and gave Dwyer a puzzled look.
“What could the son of a gun have been thinking?” Knox asked no one in particular.
“He went for one of the Iranian’s weapons,” Dwyer explained. “Crazy effin’ idiot. In a room full of operators, the lawyer goes for a gun. What kind of odds did he think he was playing?”
Garin walked over to Day’s body and kicked the gun away from his side. Out of habit, Garin checked for signs of life before securing his weapon.
Outdoors, the forest came alive with lights and sounds as a spotlight from a hovering helicopter shone on the cabin. Looking behind him out the living room window, Dwyer could see more than two dozen uniformed FBI HRT personnel moving about as an amplified voice announced their presence and their intention to enter.
“Did he actually think he had any chance of getting away?” Dwyer asked.
“No chance whatsoever,” Garin replied. “No, he knew exactly what he was doing. Suicide by cop. Or in this case, by operator.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Some criminologists say that suspects sometimes provoke cops as a way to commit suicide. Whether or not that’s true, Day knew he’d be cut down in an instant.”
“Day never struck me as the type,” Dwyer said. “But, hey, what do I know? I’m just a guy whose life he’s made miserable for the last five years. As if I needed another motive to shoot him.”
“He was looking at a possible death penalty for treason anyway,” Garin said. “And big-time public disgrace. Senate Intelligence Committee counsel working with the Russians to topple the United States. For someone used to running in the elite Washington circles, that alone would be terminal.”
Garin knew that his best chance of finding out who, if anyone, had been assisting Day died with the man. Although it was possible Day was the Russians’ primary contact, the operation seemed too sophisticated and complex for just Day to be pulling the strings. Then again, with a man like Bor executing directives from Moscow, perhaps Day needed no other assistance.
As the sounds of several FBI agents coming up the stairs echoed in the living room, Dwyer motioned for his men to lower their weapons so as not to accidentally provoke the new arrivals. Garin turned to go back into the kitchen.
“Yo, Mikey,” Dwyer called after him with a mischievous grin. “Aren’t you going to stick around for the FBI? I’m sure they’ve got lots of questions for you.”
“Can’t. Gotta call holding.”
“Who?”
“The president.”
“Well, look at you. From America’s most wanted to American hero in thirty seconds . . .”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
FRESNO, CALIFORNIA
AUGUST 2
In the two weeks since the bombing began, American and Israeli forces had substantially degraded Iran’s nuclear capacity and had caused serious damage to its overall military infrastructure.
The first targets hit were the hardened sites identified by Garin as those that would launch missiles against the United States and Israel. B-2 stealth bombers dropped several fifteen-ton bunker busters—specially reconfigured versions of the bomb known as the Massive Ordnance Penetrator—on one Iranian site alone. The weapon, by far the largest conventional bomb ever produced, was designed to penetrate hundreds of feet of mountain rock as well as the concrete and steel protecting the fortified silos before exploding. And that’s precisely what they did. Ground intelligence confirmed obliteration of the facility.
The prudential destruction of Iranian nuclear facilities followed next. Even Western antiwar and environmental activists conceded that both the Israeli and American airstrikes were impressive in avoiding the release of nuclear material into the environment. Still, the predictable denunciations ensued.
While the Israelis focused much of their attention on devastating Iranian command and control, US AGM-86 and BGM-109 Tomahawk cruise missiles targeted nuclear enrichment plants throughout the country. Bunker busters also hit processing plants in Arak and Parchin. Even so, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Taylor advised President Marshall that several more weeks of bombing were necessary to completely eliminate the Iranian nuclear threat.
When the joint US-Israeli assault began, massive protests erupted in major cities in the United States, Europe, and the Middle East, only to collapse once the US government released hundreds of photos of the interior of the mountain facility. The photos revealed in exacting detail the purpose and scale of the project. The source of the photographic evidence remained classified. In truth, the source was unknown. But the photos, including those of known Iranian nuclear scientists working on warheads within the facility, presented nearly irrefutable evidence of Iranian plans to launch nuclear weapons against its enemies.
As expected, world markets took a substantial hit but began recovering sooner than expected. Energy markets continued to remain volatile but began showing signs of stability after US, British, and French naval forces secured the Strait of Hormuz. The Saudis, relieved that action had finally been taken against their chief rival, Iran, announced a significant increase in oil production. Curiously, even the Russians, who the experts had expected would try to capitalize on the interruption of oil flow, worked feverishly to neutralize the adverse effects on the oil markets. Much of the Iranian population initially rallied around the regime, especially after propaganda of civilian causalities was circulated. But barely a week later, support began to ebb. Brandt, however, cautioned the president not to expect a regime change anytime soon.
During the first few days of the air campaign, most of the world, including its nastier elements, watched in fascination. Garin knew that in a short while the bad guys would try to exploit the world’s distraction in order to make strategic mischief. Scattered reports of clashes in Pakistan’s Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province suggested that it might be the next region to explode. Whether Garin would have any involvement in containing the situation was yet to be determined.
For the moment, Garin’s l
ife was in a holding pattern. The first few days after the takedown of the Iranians at the Terrapin Estates cabin were occupied with briefings at Langley and attending the services for Dwyer’s men killed by Taras Bor. Then he’d spent a few days at Katy’s, before he and Dwyer flew to California to check on Clint Laws, who had been released from intensive care and was finally able to receive visitors.
At the moment, however, Laws was unaware he had visitors. Garin and Dwyer sat patiently in his room while Laws slept through a good portion of visiting hours. He appeared to Garin to have lost at least thirty pounds, and his skin looked dry and sallow. The trauma seemed to have aged him ten years. Laws finally opened his eyes and, upon seeing Garin and Dwyer sitting next to the bed, drawled, “Lord, I’ve died and gone to hell.”
“Hell wouldn’t take you,” Garin said.
“Well, this sure ain’t heaven, that’s for sure. Otherwise, you two dummies wouldn’t be here.”
Garin and Dwyer stood so Laws could see them better. It was a gesture of respect as much as convenience.
“This is where you guys are supposed to tell me how good I look. Didn’t your mamas learn you any hospital etiquette? Geez, you two are hopeless.”
“How long are you going to be in here, Clint?” Dwyer asked.
“It’ll be a while,” a nurse who entered the room to check his vitals said. “He’s recovering well, but he’s still got a long ways to go. Needs lots of rest. This wasn’t a case of the hiccups. He stays awake maybe ten minutes at a stretch, so don’t be concerned if he falls asleep on you; it’s normal. By the way, no rush, but visiting hours are almost over.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Laws countered. “They just can’t bear for me to leave.”
“His hands are perfectly fine,” the nurse agreed. “They’ve been all over every nurse in this ward. Can you two convince him to keep them to himself? Or we’ll have to put him in restraints.”
“Darlin’, you just want to put me in restraints so you can have your way with me,” Laws said with a wink.
The nurse smiled over her shoulder as she left. It was the same smile, Garin noted, as the one the waitress at the Diamondback Bar had flashed.
Laws watched the nurse leave before turning to Garin.
“What’s next for you, Chief?”
“I haven’t decided, Clint.”
“He had a meeting with the secretary of defense himself a few days ago,” Dwyer interjected. “At the request of the commander in chief, no less. He won’t say what it was about, but my guess is they want him to take some low-paying job, risking his life for God and country. I’ve been trying to convince him to come back to DGT as a full partner, where he can make lots of money directing others to risk their lives for God and country.”
“So, back to the private sector, Chief?” Laws asked. “Make some more money?”
“He’s absolutely got to if he’s got any hope of escorting one Ms. Olivia Perry around Washington,” Dwyer said. “You can’t entertain a woman like that on a government salary.”
“Whoa, whoa, hold up. Olivia Perry?” Laws asked, looking genuinely impressed. “Fat boy’s right, Chief. I’ve seen her on TV sitting behind James Brandt. Yeah, buddy. Now, that’s a woman. Way out of your league, though, son.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Dwyer agreed. “Wait. Fat boy?”
“She’s a star, Chief. She’s being groomed for bigger things. By the end of the president’s first term she’ll be an assistant secretary of . . . something or other. Guaranteed. That means Georgetown cocktail parties, state dinners. She sure as hell can’t be dragging an embarrassing specimen like you to those things.”
“Tell him.” Dwyer nodded emphatically.
“Do you even know how to use a salad fork? I mean, for something other than severing someone’s trachea?”
“Save your breath,” Garin said. “Nothing’s happening. She has absolutely no interest in me. Besides, I don’t think operators are quite her type.”
“Now, that’s the first thing I’ve heard since this thing began that makes sense,” said Laws.
“And, sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve got no interest in her, either,” Garin added.
“I call bull. Big-time. Everyone’s interested in her,” Dwyer said.
But the tone of Laws’s voice, to Dwyer’s disappointment, turned sober. “So, what’s it going to be, Chief? You going back to work with Dan?”
“To lead a long and prosperous life?” Dwyer added.
Garin didn’t reply.
“Dan,” Laws said, tilting his head toward the door.
“I’ll be down in the cafeteria,” Dwyer informed them, to no one’s evident surprise. “Bring you guys anything?”
Laws and Garin each shook his head and watched as Dwyer turned to leave. After a moment, Laws shifted his gaze to Garin.
“You weren’t meant for a long and prosperous life, Mike. Not you. Your life will be strenuous and short.”
Garin wore a faint sardonic smile. If only Clint knew. “‘To every man upon this Earth death cometh soon or late.’”
“And you’re not going back to DGT.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet, Clint.”
“There’s no decision to make. We both know that. We both know exactly what you’re going to do.”
Garin cocked his head slightly, considering Laws’s statement. “I don’t know that.”
“Tell me something, Mike. If you can.”
Garin nodded for Laws to continue, knowing what the question would be.
“Did you kill Bor?”
The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Garin shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“He had help on the inside, Mike,” Laws said, his voice raspy. “High up. Way higher than Julian Day. Day couldn’t have authorized Congo Knox. It had to come from one of only two places. You know that.”
Again, Garin’s nod was barely visible.
Laws exhaled wearily. “A short life, Mike. Remember that. Yours will be a short life.”
“Get some sleep, Clint.”
The old warrior’s eyes closed slowly. Garin watched him for several minutes before turning to leave. Upon reaching the door he heard Laws whisper, “Mike.”
Garin paused and looked back. Laws lay perfectly still, his appearance cadaverous. With his eyes still closed, he turned his head in Garin’s direction and spoke, his voice barely audible but clear.
“Kill them all.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
ATLANTIC SHORELINE, DELAWARE
AUGUST 3
Sunrise was half an hour away but already pale shades of orange and pink painted most of the cloudless eastern sky as threads of dawn shimmered over the calm ocean. The air was still. The beach was deserted, but only for a couple of hours more. It was going to be yet another hot day.
A lone figure stood smoking a cigarette on the second-floor balcony of the large beach house situated on the northern end of Bethany. Tall and lean, the smoker had a patrician bearing. His movements were casual, unhurried, a man in control of himself and his circumstances.
The news during the last two weeks had been dominated by the bombings of Iran’s nuclear facilities. The Americans’ and Israelis’ devastating attacks would likely continue for several more weeks, precisely as he had expected. He watched closely the rate at which the US forces expended their munitions as well as the type and amount. Several times each day he studied detailed reports about the progress of the air campaign and the state of US military readiness throughout the rest of the world.
The reports generally pleased him. In fact, the course of events in the last month had generally pleased him. Not everything had gone according to plan. But he had been around long enough to know that there would always be detours and glitches. In this case, noth
ing had detracted from the overall success of the plan.
The first phase was nearing completion. No other obstacles remained. The United States had behaved exactly as he had predicted. In a way, it was somewhat disappointing. A superpower shouldn’t be so easily manipulated. But then, he’d always been two moves ahead of his adversaries.
It was time to initiate the next phase. They had spent several years meticulously plotting every detail of the entire operation. Although he wasn’t aware of every aspect of the plan, he had executed his portion, the most vital portion, flawlessly. They had determined that the first phase would take a bit longer to execute than it had; nonetheless, they were fully prepared to begin the next step.
He flicked the cigarette onto the sand below and opened the sliding screen door. The house was dark and quiet and would remain so for a while.
Standing for a moment in his study off of the balcony, he decided to first get himself a cup of coffee. Padding down the stairs to the kitchen, he paused on the landing to listen at the window facing the driveway at the side of the house. Although he couldn’t see them, his acute hearing picked up the quiet conversation of two bodyguards from his protective detail standing next to one of two black sedans parked outside of the carport.
At the bottom of the stairs he turned into the kitchen and poured himself a large mug of coffee, taking a sip before returning to the study. He sat in a high-backed leather chair for several minutes, cradling the mug as he faced the brightening sky.
They were on the verge. The vast intelligence apparatus of the United States had been misled and outmaneuvered. Now they would be caught flat-footed. There would be nothing they could do to prevent what was about to happen.
The house was swept twice a day for listening devices. The windows were specially constructed to frustrate any surveillance by laser microphones or similar devices. Nothing he said in this room could be heard by anyone but the intended listener. Nonetheless, obsessive about security, he exercised extreme caution, as a man in his position must, whenever speaking of the operation.
Target Omega Page 38