Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

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  This novel is for all those in the military, law enforcement, and Intelligence Community who toil against the endless threats our country faces. Your perseverance, dedication, and sacrifice keep us safe and preserve our way of life in these dark times. Never yield to those who wish to do us harm and replace liberty with totalitarianism and fear. Your fight is a good and just one. Semper Fi.

  PROLOGUE

  Akutan Island, Gulf of Alaska

  The 130-foot research boat rocked back and forth in the frigid water as the sky darkened and the last remnants of dusk vanished. Rain fell nearly horizontally, battering everything it touched. An occasional wave from the winter storm crashed over the railing, spraying the deck with frost and foam.

  Anchored only a few hundred yards off the north side of Akutan Island, its captain had wisely chosen to seek shelter as the gulf side of the island succumbed to a relentless pounding. Unfortunately for the crew, the storm wasn’t the only force of nature stalking the prototype research vessel.

  From a perch nestled among the nooks and crannies of several large, craggy rocks on the severe slope of a cliff, a pair of night-vision, military-grade binoculars was trained on the boat. Their owner stared through the lenses and looked at the illuminated dials on his watch.

  A few more minutes and visibility will be less than twenty yards. Almost time to go.

  The team commander wasn’t comfortable on American soil, but his orders had been issued from the top of his chain of command, a chain that didn’t exist in any operational publication. His team operated outside the conventional services which his country boasted and was only called upon to execute missions in the most extreme circumstances.

  He didn’t question his orders. Assuming command of his elite team years ago, his first order of business had been the removal of all questions of morality and objectivity. The success of each individual mission was all that mattered, and he had yet to fail. Tonight would be no different.

  There were no signs of life on deck. The crew of six, including the captain and the two researchers, was riding out the storm below deck or in the wheelhouse. It was an advantage for him and his team—the weather would mask their movement.

  The commander spoke quietly in English into a slim, waterproof microphone that wrapped around from his ear to his mouth. “We go in two minutes. Conduct one last gear check to ensure no loose items. Radio silence until we make contact. And no matter what, the rules of engagement must be followed. No deviations.” He knew there wouldn’t be any, and although he’d never had to reiterate his instructions before, his superior had emphasized the point to him. Above all else, he followed his orders to the letter. “Wolverine, out.”

  The rain gathered in intensity as the final vestiges of light slipped away. Moments later, four dark figures nimbly crept down the steep slope toward the churning water below. Wraiths in the night, they vanished into the gulf waters.

  ———

  Onboard the oceanic research vessel Arctic Glide

  “Jack, how long is this shit supposed to last again? I thought I was getting used to this boat, but I guess not. I feel fucking awful,” said Colin Davies, a research scientist on loan to North American Oil. Rumor on the boat was that he was some sort of mad scientist for the government, but he’d refused to confirm or deny it. He stood in the wheelhouse and tried to maintain his balance as the boat swayed back and forth.

  A satisfied smirk spread across the captain’s face. He’d spent a lifetime in and around these waters. He never tired of watching a land walker—as he referred to anyone not from the Aleutian Islands—get seasick on his boat. Although this baby isn’t really your boat now, is it, Jack? he told himself.

  “Supposed to pick up steam over the next twelve to eighteen hours. After that, should dramatically drop off in intensity. I’d say we’re back out in open water within twenty-four hours.” And if it weren’t for your weak constitution, we’d still be out on the water.

  After years of running a crab boat out of Dutch Harbor, Jack Dawson had retired, only to be hired by North American to skipper their latest research vessel built with cutting-edge oil and satellite exploration technology. It carried self-contained, stand-alone servers and closed networks. It was designed especially for these frigid waters, with a reinforced hull and a sloping bow to force ice down and away from the ship.

  Its current mission was to test the communications, navigation, and satellite research capabilities onboard in all weather conditions. The captain knew that Colin Davies had developed some of the software—thus, his required presence—and he was also reported to be close friends with one of North American’s CEOs, which was why Jack enjoyed giving him so much grief. A land walker and a suit in disguise.

  Colin nodded and started to speak, but a sudden gust of wind rattled the wheelhouse as a wave crashed into the side. He slipped on the shifting floor. As he fell, he grabbed the back of the copilot’s chair. The chair turned on its pedestal and—as if mocking him—shook off his hand, spinning him to the deck. He slammed down on his haunches, his legs splayed out in front of him.

  Jack laughed out load. “Are you having fun yet?”

  “Goddamnit!” Colin shouted. He struggled to his feet. “I’m going down to the galley with Tom and the rest of the crew. Enjoy the storm.” As Jack watched in bemusement, Colin turned and carefully exited down the steep stairs from the bridge to the main deck.

  “Blessed silence,” he muttered to himself. He sat in his chair and stared out the window. Night had finally fallen. He watched the swirling rain envelop his boat. He turned around to look back at the stern, intending to confirm that the minisub had not shifted on the open deck aft of the wheelhouse.

  A sudden movement on the main deck just below his observation window caught his attention. He was certain he’d seen a dark figure vanish under the overhang near the hatch to the main structure. Who the hell went outside on the deck without telling me?

  As Jack Dawson moved to the staircase, he heard the hatch open, followed by a loud whooshing as the wind fought to enter the boat. It was followed by a dull thump as the hatch was secured behind the reckless crew member.

  “Hey, which one of you guys is that?” he called out. “Next time you get suicidal and decide to take a stroll outside, you better friggin’ let me know, okay?”

  No answer.

  “You hear me down there?”

  Still no response.

  The sound of quickly moving soft footsteps echoed up the stairwell. What the hell?

  Jack walked over to the head of the stairs and peered into the darkness below. What he saw froze him in his tracks, and his mind took a snapshot in time.

  A black shadow in the shape of a man stood on the stairs, its right arm pointed accusatorily at him. The whites of the eyes blazed at Jack out of the darkness. But it wasn’t the eyes that grabbed Jack’s attention—it was the black pistol in the man’s hand, a menacing shape that ended in a long cylinder with a tiny opening. Oh no . . .

  He heard a soft thwap as the weapon fired point-blank into his body. A heavy punch hit his chest, and he staggered backward, as much from the shock as from the pain. He fell against the stack of radio equipment behind his chair and slumped to the floor. As his attacker stood over him, Captain Jack Dawson’s last thought was Who the hell are you? And then . . . nothing.

  PART I

  THE LAST FRONTIER


  UNALASKA, ALASKA

  CHAPTER 1

  Khartoum, Sudan

  Namir Badawi absently studied the Nile River through his office window, lost in his thoughts. A midafternoon storm was building to the south.

  A statuesque figure with a slim build and bald head, he watched the roiling clouds move toward the Republican Palace. But his thoughts were focused on a different type of storm, one aimed directly at the heart of his suffering country.

  After nearly four decades of fighting, the rebellious southern region was holding its crucial referendum next month. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. There was no doubt in Namir’s mind that the people would vote for independence. They always do, even when it’s against their best interests, he thought.

  John Garang, the deceased leader of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, would finally achieve his goal, albeit from the grave. I hope you’re burning in Jahannam for all the pain you caused from your self-righteous, sanctimonious belief in independence, he thought. After all the fighting, it’s a helicopter crash that wipes you from the face of the earth.

  Namir knew better than to think that the South would declare its independence and stop fighting, not with everything at stake along the border. Treasured oil was buried in the territory over which they fought. No peace agreement could prevent further atrocities and bloodshed. It was naïve to believe otherwise. And I am not naïve.

  Independence would be declared, but unimaginable human suffering had become a staple for the Sudanese people in those contested regions.

  In addition to the war with the South, his government had faced an uprising that started in 2003, when members of the Sudan Liberation Movement, supported by the Darfur Liberation Front, attacked the al-Fashir airfield in western Sudan. They’d destroyed four Hind attack gunships and killed most of the soldiers living on the base.

  Khartoum’s response had been swift and severe in the form of a ruthless genocide. They’d recruited the Janjaweed militias to exact revenge upon anyone unlucky enough to be associated with the rebels in any way.

  Namir had personally planned several operations that had resulted in tactical successes—with an intentionally large amount of collateral damage and civilian deaths. His methods had pleased his leadership and, ultimately, the president himself. His reward had been his selection to lead the Al Amn al-Dakhili, the organization responsible for Sudan’s internal security.

  Unfortunately, the meddlesome international media had leaked images of the horrors to the United Nations and other intrusive organizations, and Namir had been forced to scale back his aggressive assaults. The UN indictments were jokes to the president and his advisors, reminders of the ineffective bureaucracy and hypocrisy institutionalized in luxurious office buildings in New York City.

  Neither politics nor moral condemnation from others mattered to Namir. Things had quieted down after the 2005 Comprehensive Peace Agreement with the South and the 2006 agreement with the Sudan Liberation Movement in Darfur.

  As the director for internal security, his singular responsibility was clear—protect the Republic of Sudan and preserve the Islamic way of life. And it was those two duties that had him concerned as he waited for his next appointment.

  A knock at the door was followed by the sound of creaking hinges as the large, ornate panel to his second-floor office swung inward.

  “Sir, your two o’clock appointment is here. Shall I bring him in?” asked a young female voice.

  “Yes, please, Alya. Thank you.” He smiled at his secretary and nodded.

  He turned back toward the enormous double-paned window and noticed that the storm clouds had darkened. So fast. A storm is rare indeed for late December. He stepped away from the view, intending to seat himself behind his desk before his visitor entered. He stopped midstride. His visitor was already here.

  Standing motionless before him was a young Chinese man who looked no older than twenty-five. He wore dark gray trousers, a white short-sleeve polo—well-defined muscles bulging under the sleeves—and a pair of black dress shoes tightly laced and impeccably polished.

  Impressive. I should’ve heard him, Namir thought to himself. After years of training and field experience, his senses were sharp. The last person that had surprised him like this had ended up in a Kenyan river with a knife through his rib cage. He smiled at the memory.

  “Major Lau, I presume,” Namir said in English and moved toward the young man, hand extended. Major Lau immediately placed both feet together. He extended his right hand in a fist and covered it with his left hand. He nodded slightly and spoke.

  “Director Badawi, it is my distinct honor to make your acquaintance.” His delivery and enunciation were as crisp as his appearance.

  “Major Lau, while I appreciate your show of respect, please, have a seat. We have much to discuss.” His English is as good as any American’s I’ve met, Namir thought.

  The young man relaxed slightly and sat down in a high-back leather chair that faced the window. His posture was purposeful, intended to display a sense of professional confidence. Namir settled into a second chair across from him.

  He studied the trained soldier and killer, a man who’d risen quickly through the ranks of the Ministry of State Security of the People’s Republic of China. The MSS was legendary for its ferocious, methodical training. It had recently produced some of the most ruthless and successful undercover intelligence agents in the world. The one in his office was supposed to be one of the best they’d developed. He would tread carefully.

  “Major Lau, your terms have been agreed to. The only question I have left is the time line. How soon can it be done? The referendum is only a few weeks away, and I’d like to advise my president as soon as this joint mission is complete. He’ll never know the details—just the end result. But it has to be soon, or we won’t be able to control it. Do you understand?”

  “Sir, I completely—” was all Major Lau uttered before Namir interrupted him.

  “Please, call me Namir. This partnership is unofficial. There is no record of this meeting, of my phone conversations with your government, of any of this. If there were and were we to be discovered, we’d both end up indicted by that worthless International Court at The Hague. I’ve been doing this a long time. I know what you are, and I assume you know what I am. We’re both professionals. Agreed?”

  Major Lau exhaled and released some of the tension in his frame, a dangerous but genuine smile gracing his features. “As you wish, Namir. Please call me Gang, and I do have a time line. If all goes as planned—although you and I both know it hardly ever does—we will have confirmation and positive control well before the referendum. Once we do, it should provide you with guaranteed security, no matter what the South does.”

  “How soon can you begin?” Namir inquired quietly.

  “My men are here, and I’ve been informed that the software and equipment should be acquired within the next twenty-four hours. Once they have it, it will be shipped to a safe location, transported over land in our control, and flown here directly via private charter,” Gang said.

  Namir raised his eyebrows, an unspoken question forming on his lips.

  “There is no electronic trail of the shipment,” Gang said, reading his subtle expression. “I assure you. I’ll have a team I personally selected accompany it the entire time once it reaches Europe. I should have it in my custody in no more than five days.”

  Gang hadn’t told Namir about the second team in the US—a team with a different but related mission—that had gone dark, and he didn’t need to. It was that part of the operation that had him concerned. The upcoming American holiday season and the general focus on other threats to their homeland were weaknesses he intended to exploit. Once he gave the order, there would be no turning back.

  “If this operation succeeds,” Gang said, “and there’s no reason to believe it won’t—I’ve secured additional measures just in case—the prosperity of our countries will be guaranteed for decades to come, our financ
ial fates sealed and intertwined.”

  Gang was confident they’d be successful, but success was not enough. He wanted to humiliate the United States on the global stage. American arrogance would wither under the Chinese technological and industrial heel. A new world order was barreling toward the globe, a freight train of change and equality. He felt the fury rise in his stomach, a feeling he experienced at every glimpse of the American flag, a hypocritical symbol of opulence and superficiality.

  Namir nodded thoughtfully. The plan was sound and compartmented. The president and the first vice president had plausible deniability if things went wrong. And with as many moving parts as this operation had, things easily could go awry. Glory is reserved only for those willing to seize it.

  The stage was set, the actors in place, and it was time for the curtain to open. “In that case, Gang, let’s begin.” He grinned broadly, his own smile as cunningly lethal as the young killer’s.

  CHAPTER 2

  Unalaska, Alaska

  Logan West stepped off the FBI’s Gulfstream jet and onto the tarmac of Unalaska Airport. His green eyes struggled to adjust to the bright glare from the recent snowfall.

  The storm had exited the area and moved south, but the temperature had dropped twenty degrees as a consequence. With the windchill factor, it felt closer to zero than eighteen, but his short brown beard provided a thin barrier to the cold. The beard also covered up the long scar down the left side of his face, a memento from the events of two years ago.

  So much for skiing in Colorado. His and Sarah’s trip had been abruptly cut short by work, and he’d been forced to leave her in Aspen. He smiled at the thought. Rather than fly back to Maryland, she’d chosen to stay there for the rest of the week.

  “If Dutch Harbor turns out to be another wild goose chase, tell the FBI to send you back here, and we’ll finish our vacation. I don’t need to go back for a few days yet.” She’d smiled wryly and added, “And I don’t always need you to have a good time.”