by Scott McEwen
“Bob, that could be considered an act of war against an ally.”
“Yes, it could, and that’s precisely why the president has chosen a team that he can easily disavow. Don’t forget what you signed on for. We’re all expendable assets.”
Gil nodded. “Okay. You gather the intel, and I’ll brief the men.” He gestured at the locker room door. “What about him?”
“Forget him,” Pope said absentmindedly. “He’s my problem now.”
39
LAS VEGAS,
Airport
Gil took Crosswhite aside after briefing the team on a probable incursion into Canada. “This stays between us.”
“Okay.”
“Pope took an ice pick to Faisal’s face.”
Crosswhite pulled back his shoulders. “How, exactly?”
“I mean he stabbed the fucker in the face with an ice pick.”
“Jesus! I guess it worked, huh?”
“You could say that.” Gil put out his hand. “Gimme a smoke.”
“When you gonna buy your own?”
“After I smoke all yours.” Gil lit the cigarette. “Something’s up with him.”
“Pope? Or Faisal?”
“Pope. He’s on edge about something. First he snaps and stabs a guy in the face, and now he’s ordering us into Canada without consulting the president.”
“Gonna go over his head?”
“We just have to make sure we don’t get caught on the wrong side of the river, that’s all.”
A few minutes later, he was sorting his gear and decided to check his iPhone on the off-chance that Marie had called.
He listened to her voice mail and called her right back.
She answered on the first ring. “Gil?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Nevada.”
“How fast can you get here?”
“I can’t,” he said. “What’s wrong, baby?”
She didn’t reply immediately.
“Marie, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone. Why can’t you come home?”
“Because I’m—I’m working.”
“Jesus!” she said. “Can’t you tell me what the hell you’re doin’ just once? You’re not even workin’ for the goddamn navy anymore.”
He knew instantly that something was gravely wrong. “Is it Mom? Did something happen?”
“Gil, tell me what the fuck you’re doin’ that’s so important!” Her voice was shrill, and it scared him deep in the pit of his stomach.
“I’m looking for the goddamn nuke!” he blurted. “There, ya happy? I just gave out classified information over a fuckin’ cell phone! Now what’s wrong, honey? I don’t have time for this.”
She fell silent, and he could just imagine her sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hand; Oso sitting next to the chair, whining. “Marie, please tell me what’s wrong.”
She sniffled hard, and he knew she was crying.
“Baby, please tell me.”
“There was a man here,” she said finally. “Up on the ridge—with a rifle.”
Gil’s heart skipped a beat, but he remained composed. “Is he still there?”
“I shot him, Gil. I shot ’im from the bedroom window and hid his body in the stable.”
His eyes filled with tears, knowing that his wife would never again be the same woman. Now there would always be a hardness to her, a hardness where once there had been only innocence.
“I love you,” he said softly. “Tell me what happened.”
When they finished talking some twenty minutes later, Gil got off the phone and called an old friend of the family named Buck Ferguson, who owned the ranch on the other side of the valley from his own. He told Buck what was going on and asked him if he wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on Marie and his mother-in-law until he could get there himself.
“Hell, no, I don’t mind!” Buck said. “The boys and I are leaving right now.”
With that taken care of, Gil crossed the hangar to where Pope was on his satellite phone with a high muckety-muck in the DOD. “We need to talk right now.”
Pope saw the look in his eye and cut the call short. “What’s wrong?”
“I gotta get to Montana.”
“You gotta what?”
“Get to Montana.”
Pope looked around as if there might be a clue to this unexpected intrigue elsewhere in the hangar. “Gil, I don’t understand. We’re airborne for Detroit in less than an hour. I just got us clearance to land on Grosse Ile.”
Gil told Pope what had happened on the ranch and that Marie was in possession of the dead assassin’s laptop computer.
“Can she access the hard drive?”
“It’s password protected. Look, the assassin’s not an Arab. Marie says he’s a Caucasian with a German passport. So he’s probably Chechen. If he is—”
“He could be connected with the bomb,” Pope said, finishing the thought for him. “Okay, listen, there’s no way I can let you go to Montana. What I’ll do is have an Air Guard helo pick the computer up from the ranch and fly it back to the air base at Great Falls. From there an F-15 from the 186th can rendezvous with us in Detroit. That’s the fastest way for us to get our hands on it. Tell Marie to have the computer and passport ready and waiting when the helo gets there.”
Aside from her emotional well-being, Gil was also concerned for Marie in a legal sense. “What are you going to tell the president about Marie shooting the guy? She hasn’t called the police.”
“The truth,” Pope said with a shrug. “What else?”
“And if he decides to sic the attorney general after her?”
Pope adjusted his cap with a smile. “He’d never even consider such a thing. In fact, he’ll probably invite her to the White House for a Medal of Freedom ceremony. We already know how much he loves bestowing our nation’s highest honors upon members of the heroic Shannon family.”
Gil smiled dryly. “When ya get a minute, kiss my ass, will ya?”
Pope laughed. “You remind me of your father.”
40
DETROIT
Akram al-Rashid entered a warehouse in Detroit toting a black rifle case and placed it on a table in the center of the room in front of eighteen American-born Al Qaeda recruits, most of whom he had recruited from Detroit’s large urban Muslim population. They were all of Arab descent, and half of them had served in the United States military. The youngest of them, Tahir, was eighteen, a former agnostic whom Akram had personally converted to Salafism. This made Tahir Akram’s most trusted because there was no fanatic like a converted fanatic, and Tahir had already volunteered to wear a suicide vest.
There was a nineteenth man among the recruits, but he was not Arabic. He was not even Muslim. He had green eyes, reddish hair, and went by the name of Duke. He was an American mercenary, motivated by profit alone. This made him the least trusted of the group, but what made him valuable were his credentials as a former Marine and SWAT team sergeant with the Detroit Police Department.
Duke had gotten himself fired shortly after the city had gone into receivership. Disgusted over the city’s abolition of public employee rights to arbitration, cutting their benefits and pay, he had taken a weekend job as an informal nightclub bodyguard for a local pimp who called himself Fabulous Jay. It had been a lucrative gig, too, until someone had decided to take a shot at Fabulous Jay in the club’s VIP section. The shooter had nicked Jay in the shoulder with his first shot, and Duke had blown him away with a .40 caliber double tap to the sternum.
After a thorough investigation into the shooting, it was discovered that Duke had lied about what he was doing in the club that night, and he was eventually fired after nineteen years on the job, with complete l
oss of pension and benefits.
Akram heard about Duke from a spy within the police department and approached him at the junkyard where he’d taken a job driving a forklift. The promise of a quarter million dollars for work as a hired gun had sounded great to Duke, and he’d accepted on the spot, walking off the job without even telling his boss.
Now the ruddy ex-cop sat rocked back in a folding chair with his fingers laced behind his head, dressed in black trousers, tactical boots, and a black Under Armour T-shirt. The other team members gave him a wide birth, not because they feared him but rather because they didn’t like having an infidel in their midst. Another suspicious thing was that Duke openly believed they were all connected to the atomic bomb, yet he didn’t seem to resent them for it. He even cracked jokes about it.
“Hey, Akram,” Duke asked, “which city gets turned into glass, huh? Inquiring minds want to know.”
Akram gave him a dry smile as he unbuckled the rifle case. “I’ve told you before the Chechens are responsible for the bomb. We have nothing to do with it.”
“Yeah? Then how the hell do you know Detroit ain’t the target?”
Akram’s eyes appeared flat and reptilian. “We don’t.”
Duke sobered for a moment and then laughed it off. “I can’t wait to find out who gets it. It’s better than a fucking movie.”
One of the other former Marines on the team still had enough grunt left in him to resent mercenaries. His name was Abad. He had a hatchet face, very dark eyes, and still kept his hair cut in military fashion. “You expect us to believe you really don’t care?” he asked in perfect American English.
Duke turned his head. “Only fucking thing I care about, son, is getting paid and moving to Brazil, where they got all that hot poontang. After that, this whole country can burn to a crackly crisp, for all I care. I put in nineteen goddamn years, and what did I get when those rich bastards finally bankrupted the city? Shit-canned! So I ain’t about to—”
“Enough,” Akram said quietly. “Duke is a soldier of Allah like the rest of us—even if he doesn’t realize it. Nothing happens that is not God’s will.” He spoke predominantly in English because not all of the recruits spoke fluent Arabic.
Akram took the rifle from the case and extended the legs of the bipod, resting it on the table.
Duke let out a whistle. “Now, that’s a fine piece of artillery.”
Akram smiled. “You know this weapon?”
“You bet your ass I know it. That’s a McMillan TAC-50.” The TAC-50 was a .50 caliber sniper rifle manufactured in the United States, though used predominantly by Canadian forces. Duke dropped his feet to the floor and leaned in closer for a better look. “And I’m guessing that’s the A1R2 with the hydraulic stock. Am I right?”
Akram was impressed. “You’ve fired one?”
“Not the R2,” Duke said, “but I’ve fired the A1 a number of times. Who’re you planning to blow away with that shoulder cannon, the president?”
“What would you say if I said yes?”
“I’d say, ‘Windage and elevation, Mrs. Langdon! Windage and elevation!’ ” He laughed out loud, expecting the others to join him, but he saw only blank faces staring back at him. “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” he said sadly. “You fuckers are too young to remember the Duke.”
“Who’s he?” asked Tahir.
“John Wayne, knucklehead. The Undefeated. Jesus Christ! Wipe your mama’s milk off your fuckin’ chin!”
The youth stood up, his eyes full of fire.
“Sit down!” Akram ordered.
Tahir sat back down instantly, dropping his gaze to the floor between his feet.
Akram cut Duke a fatherly look of disapproval.
Duke rolled his eyes, rocking back and putting his feet back up on a crate. “Windage and elevation,” he muttered with a chuckle.
“I want you all to listen carefully,” Akram said, once again the Saudi Royal Marine. “Our target is very dangerous. We’ve already sent one highly skilled operative in after him, and that operative has failed to report back.”
Duke put his feet back on the floor, suddenly all business. “Is the target a military man?”
“Yes, he is,” Akram said, deciding to see just how solid the Duke was. “He’s an ex-Navy SEAL, as a matter of fact—one of your country’s best. His name is Gil Shannon.”
“No shit. The frogman who won the Medal of Honor?”
“Does that create a conflict for you?”
Duke’s eyes glassed over. The thought of taking on the great Gil Shannon was like mainlining a syringe full of adrenaline. “You put that TAC-50 in my hands, buster, and I’ll show you how conflicted I am.”
“Good,” Akram said, satisfied. “I’ll be manning this weapon, but I want everyone to be familiar with it in case something happens to me. Duke, you brought your own rifle, correct?”
Duke sat up straight. “An M40A3 bolt action. Same weapon I carried in the Corps.”
Abad leaned forward to see him better. “You were a Marine?”
“Yeah, what’s it to you?”
“Which division?”
“The Second.”
“I was with the First.”
“And you don’t know John Wayne, for Christ sake?”
“I never said I didn’t know John Wayne—and stop with the blasphemy.”
“Fuck do you care? I thought you were Muslim.”
“Blasphemy is blasphemy.”
“Enough!” Akram said, annoyed by Duke’s uncouthness but realizing there was nothing to be done about it. “I want military discipline from this point, and there are enough of you who know what that is. We board a private jet for Montana in the morning.” He looked at Duke. “Your pilot friend has received the first half of his payment, correct?”
Duke nodded.
“Good. Perhaps you should tell the men what you told me.”
Duke turned in his chair to face the others. “Listen up. This pilot’s an Australian—a merc like me. He ain’t from here, and he ain’t stayin’ here after he gets paid. But keep your mouths shut about what we’re up to because you never know with these Aussies. They like to get all tanked up and blab their business to whoever’s around. So the less he knows, the better for us all. Just keep your traps shut and focus on the mission.”
“That’s good advice,” Akram said. “Be sure to follow it.” Then he decided to give Duke something else constructive to do. “Duke, why don’t you come up here and show the men how to operate this weapon? I’m sure you’re more qualified than I am.”
Duke grinned and got to his feet. “You’re finally talkin’ my language, son.”
As Akram sat in the back of the room watching Duke break down the weapon and explain how to operate it, his mind began to drift. The people of the Middle East had been hiring Western mercenaries to help them fight their wars against other Western powers since the days of antiquity, starting with Greeks during the early Greco-Persian wars. It disgusted Akram to have to admit they needed help, but he consoled himself with thoughts of Kashkin’s bomb.
The bomb will create parity, he promised himself. The first domino to fall against the Western economy—followed by another and then another. I will not live to see the final victory, but that doesn’t matter. I lead a platoon in the first skirmish of the battle.
After the weapon tutorial, Akram took Tahir into another room, ostensibly for a private prayer session, but he smacked the youth the moment the door closed.
“What were you thinking, allowing yourself to be so easily baited by that infidel?”
Tahir looked at the floor. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry, teacher.”
“A thoughtless fanatic is useless to me—even less useful to Allah. Do you understand?”
“Yes, teacher.”
“You want to be a martyr? So pride filled that you can�
�t even ignore childish insults from a complete fool?” Akram shook his head in disappointment, but he was secretly happy for the boy’s harmless error. It had given him an excuse to shame him, to make him even more determined to carry out a bombing mission if and when the time came.
41
IN THE SKY OVER IOWA
Somewhere in the air over Iowa, Gil and Pope went up the ladder into the cockpit of the C-5 Galaxy to talk with the pilot. The air force major climbed out of his seat and stepped to the back of the flight deck.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Gil showed him a map of Detroit, pointing to Grosse Ile in the middle of the Detroit River. The island was over six miles long and roughly two wide. “When we get to Detroit, Major, I need you to land here at Naval Air Station Grosse Ile.”
The pilot looked at him. “NAS Grosse has been closed for more than forty years.”
“It’s still a municipal airport,” Pope said. “I’ve already gotten us clearance to land.”
“But, Mr. Pope, the runway there isn’t long enough. Selfridge Air Base is only just up the river. I suggest we land there, sir.”
“Selfridge is fifty miles north of the target area. Grosse Ile is less than three.” Pope smiled his boyish smile. “You do the math, Major.”
“But, sir, I’m telling you there isn’t enough runway.”
Pope set down the map on the navigator’s console and produced an iPad from a black satchel hanging over his shoulder. “I have the entire operator’s manual for the C-5 Galaxy right here at my fingertips. We need less than thirty-six hundred feet of runway to land, and the runway at Grosse Ile is more than forty-eight hundred feet long.”
“That’s true, but I need eighty-four hundred feet to take off again.”
“Taking off again isn’t our problem,” Gil said. “We’ve got a loose nuke to find.”
The pilot stood looking at him. “My orders don’t include jeopardizing this aircraft.”
Pope took the sat phone from his back pocket. “Major, I press one button, and we’ll be talking to the president of the United States. I’ve met him personally, and he’s not a very reasonable man when he’s upset. In my youth, I flew C-130s for Air America, so you and I both know that you can safely land this plane on Grosse Ile. Colonel Bradshaw is with the president, and I’m reasonably certain he knows it too.”