Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  Almost dinner time. I’ll brief the team then, he thought as the helicopter descended below three hundred feet.

  BOOM!

  Even inside the luxury business helicopter China had shipped to Sudan for his personal use, the explosion was tremendous.

  Panic gripped Xiang as he frantically whipped his head around, searching for the source of the blast. An accident? Had one of the rigs blown?

  He saw no evidence of smoke or fire on the ground, and for a moment he breathed a sigh of relief as his mind processed the fact that he was still alive. What the hell was that? Doesn’t matter. You’re okay.

  Xiang relaxed slightly, until the sound of alarms shrieking reignited his fear. The helicopter suddenly lurched to the side as the rotors lost power. The door to the cabin slammed backward against the bulkhead, and Xiang glimpsed the cockpit’s instrument panel. All the screens were blank.

  We’ve lost power. How is that possible? It was his last thought as the helicopter plunged to the ground, a falling aluminum coffin. The aircraft rolled to the left, and Xiang was thrown against the window, just in time to watch in horror as the ground rushed up to seal his fate.

  The helicopter crashed next to one of the oil rigs and exploded in spectacular fashion, blowing apart in large metallic chunks. The concussion wave and rotors tore into the rig’s tower, severing the upper half that contained the top drive, the powerful motor that turned the shaft and drill string. The apparatus crumpled to the structure below, sparks and flame shooting out of the shaft.

  Whoosh! Thud!

  The rig ignited in an immense explosion that set off a chain reaction. Within seconds, the entire site was engulfed in one massive fireball, a conflagration of burning fuel and gas that consumed everything in its fiery path.

  Shao Xiang’s fortune—like his life—was no more.

  CHAPTER 27

  Defense Special Missile and Aerospace Center (DEFSMAC), National Security Agency (NSA), Fort Meade, Maryland

  Luther Corbitt, the Senior Mission Director on shift in DEFSMAC’s Operations Area Watch Center, was bored. A senior General Schedule 15, he was used to the fast-paced operational tempo that the early 2000s had provided. With multiple military operations under way in both Iraq and Afghanistan, it had been an insanely hectic time, a time he longed for once again.

  Hell, I’d settle for the Cold War days of Soviet ballistic missile testing, he thought. If nothing else, he hoped that his time as the SMD in charge of the watch center positioned him well for senior executive, the next and final step in his long career.

  DEFSMAC was a joint NSA, Defense Intelligence Agency, and National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency venture. Its mission was to collect intelligence on foreign missiles and satellites from the ground, sea, and space. Its existence was not widely publicized, although it had provided some of the most critical intelligence on the Soviet missile and space programs over the past several decades.

  Luther stared at the huge bank of screens that monitored the world for launch and space events. Finally, he made a decision and pushed his rolling chair back, standing to his full height of five feet nine inches.

  “Steve, I’m going for some chips.” It was midmorning, not even halfway through his shift, and he was hungry.

  “Roger,” Steve, a former enlisted Air Force master sergeant and his Assistant Mission Director, replied. “Pick me up a Snickers bar. Got money?”

  “I gotcha covered. Back in a few,” Luther said, and shuffled off the slightly elevated platform that served as the watch center’s hub.

  He walked toward the back corner of the enormous space as his eyes moved across the 1980s furniture, another staple of a bureaucratic government institution.

  For some reason, it was always the same—white floor panels that concealed all the fiber optic cables and electrical wiring, cream-colored desks, and gray cubicle dividers. He’d heard renovations were being planned in the next few years, but he’d believe it the day that someone walked in and told them to pack their stuff, and not one moment before.

  He reached the community snack fund—which someone had wittily nicknamed DEFsnack—grabbed his chips and a Snickers bar, and began the trek back to his desk.

  “Luther, you better move faster than that!” Steve shouted across the watch floor.

  That’s never a good thing, Luther thought as he hurried back to the hub. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but one of our space-based infrared satellites just detected a large explosion along the Sudan–South Sudan border near the Nuba Mountains,” Steve said.

  “What’s the big deal about that? They’ve been fighting along that border for a while now. It’s not the first time we’ve picked up an explosion in that country,” Luther said, looking at his AMD quizzically.

  “I know, but this explosion had two distinct signatures,” Steve replied, smiling grimly at his boss.

  “Huh? How’s that possible?” Luther asked, concern creeping into his voice. It was common knowledge that the Defense Support Program satellites could detect even the smallest explosion from space via infrared sensors, but two components to an explosion only meant one thing, and it wasn’t good.

  “Right now, it looks like a massive explosion, but it started with a large electromagnetic burst, as if someone detonated a bomb,” Steve said, the smile now gone.

  Possibilities raced through Luther’s mind. You got what you asked for, jackass, Luther thought, now wishing he hadn’t been pining away for the good ol’ days of the Cold War.

  “Get the NGA guys to find out from their imagery what’s at that location. Prepare a CRITIC message immediately,” Luther said, referring to the years-old Criticom message system that was triggered when a crisis or event occurred, one that hadn’t already been broadcast across the world news agencies. A message would be issued via FLASH traffic at the highest priority and reach the entire Intelligence Community and the White House within minutes. “I’m calling the SOO at NSOC,” he finished, wondering how the Senior Operations Officer in charge of the National Security Operations Center—who also served as the after-hours director of NSA—would respond to this one.

  Hope he’s having a slow day so far, because it’s about to get frickin’ busy, he thought, and picked up the classified phone at his desk.

  ———

  White House Situation Room

  Christopher Moran, the Assistant National Security Advisor, stared at the message he’d just been handed, the words “electromagnetic attack” and “secondary, massive explosion at a Chinese drill site” in bold, accusing letters.

  One of the CIA’s many sensitive special access programs, THOR’S HAMMER was a space-based, electromagnetic bomb that used a maneuverable reentry vehicle to puncture the earth’s atmosphere upon release from its satellite. Once deployed, a GPS guidance system locked on to its target, and the bomb glided to its location, detonating a few hundred meters above the earth. The explosion produced an electromagnetic field that disabled most electronics within the target area, from a few hundred meters to a kilometer, depending on the size of the conventional warhead. Compared to detonating a nuclear warhead tens of kilometers above the earth, which could create an electromagnetic pulse to black out an entire city, an electromagnetic bomb was a precision weapon.

  What started as a normal Tuesday had just turned into a national security crisis that was spiraling out of control by the minute. Christopher was still holding the email notification from the CIA about the activation of THOR’S HAMMER. He hadn’t even had time to head upstairs to brief his boss, Jonathan Sommers, who was himself occupied with the hunt for the stolen DARPA technology. Things had just taken a turn for the worse less than two hours ago when the Americans sent into Sudan had been ambushed, and two of them had been captured. To throw gasoline on the fire, it was the missing ONERING that apparently had just been used to activate THOR’S HAMMER to attack one of the US’s largest adversaries. Someone was orchestrating a very dangerous global maneuve
r.

  Christopher turned to a Marine Corps major, who served as one of the communications officers, and handed him the notifications. “Major Turner, please get my boss down here and prepare the secure connection to the president, but don’t activate it until Mr. Sommers gets here. Also, we need to reach our ambassador to the UN. This is going to get very ugly, very fast.”

  Christopher knew the Chinese would be clamoring to get in front of the UN Security Council as soon as they figured out what had happened. The US needed to be prepared to respond, which meant the president and all his principals had to be briefed as soon as possible.

  As much as he loved his job, it was on days like this that his thoughts turned to his former life. A University of Michigan law school graduate at the top of his class and former partner at one of DC’s most prominent law firms, he’d given up a seven-figure salary for longer hours, less pay, and what amounted to absolutely no social life outside the White House.

  Oh well, the price of glory, he thought sardonically as he waited for the arrival of his boss.

  ———

  McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas, Nevada

  Deputy Director Mike Benson was still stunned as he stepped off the lowered ramp that extended from the back of the military C-17 transport jet. He was struggling to process the fact that Logan West and Cole Matthews had been ambushed and captured moments after he’d hung up with them.

  The reality that Logan West, one of the most fearsome warriors Mike had ever known, could be taken alive by anyone was deeply unsettling. It told him that whoever their adversary was, they had resources Mike and his FBI task force didn’t. It also told him that there was a traitorous mole in the US government. At what exact level, he didn’t know—although it had to be very senior—but someone was feeding the enemy information that had resulted in Logan’s capture.

  Mike felt helpless. Part of him—not a small one—wanted to drop the Vegas lead, reboard the C-17, and fly to Sudan like a bat out of hell to help find his friend. He knew it was irrational, but his loyalty to his brother in arms was a nearly tangible thing.

  Fortunately, John Quick was in Khartoum with the full support of both the US Embassy and the entire American Intelligence Community. As a result, Mike had faith that his friend would soon be found. It was only a matter of time.

  Logan would’ve understood perfectly well that Mike had a duty to perform—no pun intended—in Las Vegas. His instincts were screaming at him that somehow all of it was connected—Alaska, Spain, the North Korean cargo ship, and now Sudan.

  While he didn’t possess Logan’s ferocity, he did have a dogged determination that had served him well throughout his entire career. Above all else, he favored a thorough and methodical investigative approach. He’d leave no stone unturned, and before this was over, he’d have the truth.

  But first, he needed to get his team and equipment to the Las Vegas FBI field office, north of the city. He’d call his uncle Jake, the current director of the FBI, and find out what the hell was going on in DC. There was a leak at the highest levels of the Intelligence Community, and it needed to be plugged quickly.

  CHAPTER 28

  US Embassy, Khartoum

  The windowless room had four occupants, but only three were conscious. They stared at the wet body of the young Chinese intelligence operative with an uncomfortable combination of anger and respect. The man had endured nearly two hours of relentless interrogation by both Amira and John, but neither had been able to break him. He’d repeated the same sentence in Chinese over and over, until he had finally passed out after the last round of extended waterboarding.

  Since the room had microphones and HD video cameras that fed the observation area outside, John had exited early on to find out what the young man was saying from a CIA officer who spoke Chinese and was observing the interrogation.

  “Stupid fucking kid,” the officer had said and shook his head as John entered the room. All the prisoner had said was one phrase that he kept repeating—“Your friends are not coming back, and I won’t tell you anything, no matter what you do to me.”

  John had rejoined Amira and Cole inside the interrogation room, and it was clear by now it would take more than a little water to break their prisoner. “This is getting us nowhere,” John said. “I have to give it to this guy. I never thought he’d last this long. What do we do now? Every minute that passes is another minute that puts Logan and Cole further away from us.”

  “I can take a different tactic with him,” Amira said coldly, “but I have to tell you, it can get messy.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” Wendell Sharp, the room’s third conscious occupant, asked hesitantly. He had no problem with methods that had been approved in the past—however controversial they may have been—but he sensed that the female assassin had something more primitive in mind. “We’re not barbarians.”

  He was still coming to terms with the fact that he had an operative working in his region he hadn’t known existed. A short conversation with the director had sorted it out for him, and he’d been ordered to provide “any and all assistance” to his guests.

  “Mr. Sharp, I appreciate the concern you have, and I realize that this is putting you way outside your comfort zone,” John said, “but honestly, I don’t care. If this woman thinks she can get him to give up their location, then I’m all for it, as unpleasant as it may be. You seem like a decent man, but to be blunt, decency is not what this calls for right now. We have an obligation to do everything in our power to solve this, no matter how distasteful or morally repugnant it might seem.” He turned to Amira and asked, “What do you have in mind?”

  “We take his fingers, one by one,” Amira replied calmly.

  John looked at her for a moment, saw the expression of disgust on the station chief’s face, and nodded. “I admit I don’t like it, but at this point it’s worth a shot.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re going to cut off his fingers?” Wendell asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” Amira replied flatly. “It will likely only take one or two to get him to talk.” She looked at him directly as she continued, her pale-blue killer’s eyes penetrating his very soul. “It’s not the pain that breaks them. It’s the permanent loss, the fact that I’m going to take something that can’t be replaced or heal on its own. It’s the fear that gets them, Mr. Sharp. I’ve never had to go more than three, and I always start with the pinky, just in case they decide to talk immediately. I figure it’s only fair to start with the least-used finger.”

  She’s amazing, John thought. A female version of Logan, but possibly with less remorse and mercy. Definitely my kind of gal. The last thought surprised him, but it wasn’t a total shock. He was self-aware enough to realize he’d been attracted to her immediately, even in the middle of the bloody chaos. She was impressive, pure and simple, and he wasn’t easily impressed by anyone or anything after all of the adventures in which he and Logan had both survived and prevailed.

  “What do you need?” John asked.

  “Just my stilettos, which I left outside in the observation area. I don’t like to bring weapons into an interrogation, just on the off chance that the subject breaks free,” Amira said.

  “Has that ever happened before?” John said.

  “Once. On the second person I ever interrogated. I made the mistake of leaving one of the zip ties loose. He managed to get his right arm free from the chair,” she said.

  “What did you do?” John asked, mesmerized by her calm demeanor.

  “I broke his arm and then resecured him to the chair. After that, I always double-check my bindings,” she said. Suddenly, she flashed him a smile. “A girl can never be too sure,” she said, and walked out of the room.

  “I’ll bet,” John said, staring at the open doorway.

  “You’re seriously going along with this?” Wendell asked him.

  John studied their captive before meeting Wendell Sharp’s accusatory gaze. “Mr. Sharp, this operati
ve ambushed us before we even had a chance to react. I get it that it was his job, his mission. I don’t take that part of it personally. It comes with the territory. It’s not the first time someone’s tried to kill me, and I’m sure the way this week is going, it won’t be the last.” His voice grew steadily stronger. “But what I will not do is let him just sit here while the best man I’ve ever known lies in captivity. I vowed that I’d do whatever it takes to find Logan.” He paused for a moment, his conviction apparent. “And I do mean whatever it takes. If we have to take this sonofabitch apart piece by piece, so help me God, we’ll do it, because in the end, I’ll get what I want from him, and I will find my friend.”

  “Mr. Sharp,” Amira added as she reentered the room, “I’m not bound by the same laws you are. The agency may have stopped enhanced interrogation techniques last year, but I have full discretion backed by documentation I can’t reveal to you. That’s the truth. Confirm it with Langley, if you must. Just make sure you go straight to the director’s office.”

  Wendell Sharp was smart enough to know when someone was bluffing. She wasn’t. He only nodded, accepting the inevitability of what was coming. God help whoever has this man’s friend, he thought.

  “One thing that should have you more concerned than what she’s about to do is this—how the hell did they know we were here? It was only last night we even knew about this lead. Now that Amira’s told us how she was tipped off by Langley, I’m concerned it’s the same high-level mole who’s had us chasing our tails in circles. Whoever it is had access to LEGION intelligence, and that is most definitely not a good thing,” John said.

  Wendell had already considered the possibility, and the thought disturbed him, maybe even more than removing their captive’s fingers. The Intelligence Community had a long history of traitors, and each one had a body count associated with him or her.

  Before he had a chance to speak, a single double-edged stiletto appeared in Amira’s hand.

  “It’s time,” she said. “Wake him up.”