by James Phelan
Sefreid moved into the main cabin where his team, along with the surviving EU men, were strewn. “You can use the UHF radio in the cockpit to notify Tabriz of our arrival,” he told Farrell.
“Thanks, Richard. I’ll do that now,” Farrell replied and moved off to the cockpit. “Should one of us stay behind for Fox and Al?”
asked Gibbs.
Sefreid thought for a moment as the Gulf-stream’s engines began revving to take-off power. He recalled his last image of the pair as they’d escaped the carnage of heavy battle gloriously unscathed. They were two of the toughest and most dependable soldiers he had ever fought beside.
“I think they’ll manage. We can come back and pick them up before we head for home.”
60
THE WHITE HOUSE
Images of the destroyed site came up on the screens in the Situation Room. A very surprised National Security Advisor and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs looked on.
“Tell me what I’m seeing, Don,” McCorkell ordered the highest-ranking member of the armed forces.
“I don’t think the images need further interpreting,” Vanzet replied. “The heat resonance, blast zone, and…” He motioned for an aide to switch the screens over to other images travelling via fibre-optic cable from the Pentagon. “Fallout.”
“Could the radioactivity have been produced by the theterium? I mean, could the conventional explosion from our Tomahawk strike have reacted with the element?” McCorkell asked quickly.
“The final piece of evidence,” Vanzet said solemnly. “Our readouts measure levels of weapons-grade uranium in the atmosphere, found only after a nuclear attack, which point to an interesting conclusion…”
“Which is?” McCorkell asked impatiently.
“The blast zone is consistent with a modern ten-kiloton tactical nuke common to any of the nuclear countries.” Vanzet paused. “The levels of uranium are almost twice the amount needed by such a weapon.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the nuke used in this case was either an older variant built by one of these nations, or, more likely, a crude device built by another party involved. We won’t know who unless we get soil samples from the site. Somebody wanted to make sure no one got their hands on the theterium. Ever.”
For all McCorkell’s experience and expertise in military and intel affairs, he was dumbfounded. Never had he considered he would see a nuke used aggressively in his time in the House. Those days were meant to be long past. And, until further information was garnered from investigations, the report he was about to give the President was terribly vague.
61
IRAN
Fox and Gammaldi were throwing pebbles into a Kevlar helmet to pass the time when the piercing light of a locomotive shone towards them.
“Well, if it isn’t the Orient Express, right on time,” Fox said. He got to his feet and dusted himself off.
“I hope you booked separate cabins this time. I simply couldn’t put up with your snoring again,” Gammaldi said as he too patted the dirt and dust from his fatigues.
“Not to worry. First class all the way.”
The pair concentrated on the train as it moved closer, then slowed to climb the slight gradient of the track.
“Ready?” Fox asked as the diesel engine car passed their position. It was followed by almost two dozen boxcars and flat-beds laden with supplies, headed for the Iranian defence of the northern border.
“When you are!” Gammaldi called over the noise.
The pair sped up to match the train’s speed. Fox grabbed onto a heavy strap tying down covered boxes and hoisted himself up, quickly righting himself and leaning back to aid his friend.
“Come on, slow coach!” he yelled as they locked hands to wrists.
Fox needed every ounce of strength to pull his mate aboard. They lay on their backs on what little of the deck was free, catching their breath in heaving bursts.
“Which way do you think the dining car is?” Gammaldi gasped.
62
THE WHITE HOUSE
McCorkell rang the President, who was at Camp David, from the Situation Room. He had to wait a full five minutes as the President was in a meeting with NATO heads of state, discussing the Middle East tensions.
“What say you, Bill? Good news, I trust,” greeted the President.
“Depends how you look at it, Mr President,” McCorkell said. “Firstly, we failed to obtain the theterium. The resourcers and marines are presumed dead.”
“Dead, you say? A damn shame—fine, fine men.” The President paused, choosing his words carefully.
“Is the element accessible to anyone else?”
“No, sir, it has been wiped off the map. All signs point to the use of a crude nuclear device.” McCorkell let the gravity of this news settle in the silence that followed. When the President spoke, it was not the explosive reaction McCorkell had expected from the man he knew so well.
“A crude nuclear weapon, you say? Who would dare use a nuke, do you think?”
“That is not clear yet, Mr President, and may prove difficult to find out conclusively,” McCorkell replied.
“Is it likely the blast was noticed by other nations?” the President asked.
“Not unless they were looking at the site from above, as there are no outside witnesses to the explosion.” McCorkell wondered where this line of questioning was leading, but continued nonetheless. “The device was a small one—no more than ten kilotons—and as such, and because of the remote location, seismic tremors outside Iran will not be recorded to any determination of cause.”
“Excellent, excellent,” the President said quietly, before continuing quickly. “We still have Baker in Tehran, who’s been able to make good headway in the past week.”
He sounded a little too practised, McCorkell thought.
“I think it’s possible he can persuade the Iranian government to keep a lid on this, in return for international support led by us to sanction the Chechen/Azerbaijan Alliance for their demolition of Bandar-e Anzali.”
“Convenient—but why would we want to keep a lid on somebody using a nuke?” McCorkell said, well and truly smelling a big fat rat.
“Because, Bill, the ramifications would be immense. Think about it,” the President recited. “Imagine the public hysteria that would erupt if we went to the press saying someone, perhaps Chechnya, exploded The Bomb. We have to wait until we have indisputable proof of the culprit.”
McCorkell sat in silence on the other end of the secure telephone link, stunned by his Commander in Chief’s considered words.
“Are we in agreement on this, Bill?” the President said, bringing the National Security Advisor back around.
“Sorry?” McCorkell said.
“Do you concur this would be the wisest course of action to take—for the sake of national security?” the President asked.
McCorkell thought about that for a full minute before replying. “Under the circumstances, it seems to be an adequate course of action,” he allowed.
“Good to hear, Bill—because, you know, I couldn’t have my National Security Advisor disagreeing with my own views on national security,” the President said. The subtext was clear.
“No. That would get in the way of a dictatorship,” McCorkell responded, his face flushing at the thinly veiled threat.
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve worked together too many damn years to dick each other around! You want some yes-man, go find one, but God help the planet!”
A stunned silence.
“You quoted Wilson in your first State of the Union, remember?” McCorkell said.
There was another pause before the President replied. “Yeah, I did.”
“You quoted him as saying, ‘Is the present war a struggle for a just and secure peace, or only for a new balance of power? There must be not a balance of power, but a community of power; not organised rivalries, but an o
rganised, common peace.’” McCorkell paused to let the words sink in. “Don’t we still believe in that?”
“Now wait a second, Bill—”
“No, you wait a second, damn it!” McCorkell was squeezing the phone receiver hard. “If you leave me in the dark on something—watch out. And if you get me involved in something I’m not aware of—”
“All right, Bill!” the President bellowed. “There’s nothing you need to know about, nothing you are involved in.” He paused for a long breath. “Bill, you know I can’t run this show without you.”
McCorkell recognised the sincerity in the President’s voice and almost felt apologetic for his outburst—then thought again. The man on the other end of the phone line hadn’t reached the top office without being a damn good politician, mastering all the necessary traits.
“Are you truly comfortable with this standpoint?” McCorkell asked his Commander in Chief. He had his own read on the President’s standpoint. They’d started their first term in office together eager to make changes, but he’d watched over the past three years as the office had changed his friend.
“Yes, I think it’s the only course of action now,” the President said.
“Okay,” McCorkell compromised. “I’ll tidy things up at this end, including making sure the Chechen Alliance find out their objective has been lost. If we can avert their attack on Iran and exploit our involvement in the process, it will make life a hell of a lot easier for Adam Baker.”
“Sounds like a solid plan,” the President said sincerely. “Bill?”
“Yes, Mr President?” McCorkell had cooled down now.
“It’s late and you’ve been on this thing nonstop for over a week. Take a day off. Don’t go near a government building or I’ll have the Secret Service deal with you.”
“I’m taking a few days, Mr President. If something comes up, I’ll see you at the House,” McCorkell said, happy to have set things relatively straight.
“Bill?”
“Yes, Mr President.”
“What will you do on this little holiday?”
McCorkell sighed and put his feet up on the end of the long table in the Situation Room. Although late at night, the room still buzzed with activity as aides continued to monitor hot spots around the globe.
“Oh, I’ll be around. You know me—I can never get far away from this place.” McCorkell thought for a moment. “What will I do? Run in the mornings, as usual, perhaps even row the Potomac…”
63
IRAN
Fox and Gammaldi walked the short distance to the gates of the Amahn Research Centre. The GPS had helped them find the location in the darkness of nightfall.
A pair of sedate guards quickly snapped to attention when the two near-death-looking figures emerged from the middle of nowhere, demanding to see Eric Gunther.
“Who did you say you were?” one guard asked again, he and his partner warily drawing their pistols.
“I’m Lachlan Fox and this is Alister Gammaldi. We’re with Cussler’s Fantastic Flying Circus and we’re here to see the good Dr Gunther,” Fox said, exasperated after the fifth request.
“I think I’m going to call the captain,” the second guard said to the first.
“What a good idea. Why didn’t we think of that?” Gammaldi said mockingly to Fox.
“We are but circus performers…” Fox trailed off.
After a brief conversation over the phone in the squat concrete guardhouse, the guard exited. “The captain of base security is on his way. It seems he may know who you are.”
The wait was a short one. A Humvee came rushing to the scene from the main building, lit up along the way by huge halogen floodlights scattered about the facility. The noise of the four-wheel drive was soon drowned out by the sound of a plane coming in to land: Eric Gunther’s gleaming Lear jet.
The GSR Gulfstream touched down at the Tabriz medical compound where it was met by Lieutenant Paulson and his squad of Gurkhas, who rushed the wounded to surgery.
“I think you should take the time to have your injured seen to as well, Richard,” Farrell said, after he was sure the injured EU team members were being looked after.
Sefreid looked at his men: Geiger who had been nicked in the arm, Pepper sporting a nasty dog bite, and Goldsmith with gashes down his cheeks from the same source. Everyone had cuts, bruises and scrapes from the double ordeal of the farm-house and the theterium site. Everyone was tired.
“I’m sure a professional change of gauzes and a few cold drinks wouldn’t go astray,” Sefreid said and motioned for his team to move into the medical centre.
“You still haven’t told me who you’re working for,” Farrell said as the two commanders moved to a quiet corner of the surgery and drank from soft-drink cans. He wasn’t too optimistic about getting a straight answer.
“Would you believe I’m here for the good of the world?” Sefreid said with a grin.
“Sure—but it doesn’t answer my question,” Farrell prodded.
“Well, would you believe a genuine idealist with more cojones than Uncle Sam?” Sefreid said.
Farrell looked at his comrade in silence for a moment, taking in his deadpan expression.
“Forget I asked. I didn’t really want to know anyway,” he said with a laugh. “Just don’t be a stranger. Drop me a line at Hereford if you ever find yourself in sunny England.”
Sefreid nodded and smiled, impressed that the SAS man felt he could trust him with his identity. “Will do. It’s been a pleasure to fight beside you and your boys.”
“Same here,” Farrell said as they shook hands. “If you ever find yourself in a tough spot again, yell out—we might just be in the same neighbourhood.”
“Then I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again,” Sefreid said confidently.
Farrell thought for a moment. “Those two making their way on that contraption belonging to the marines—reckon they pulled through?” he asked.
“Fox and Gammaldi?” Sefreid grinned. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they were lying under palm fronds in some oasis being waited on by a tribe of beautiful desert nymphs.”
“You want to borrow my plane?” Gunther asked, looking proudly at the Lear jet.
“I assure you it’s a matter of life and death. Not for us but potentially millions,” Fox said, hoping it would do the trick.
Gunther rubbed the five o’clock shadow on his chin thoughtfully.
“Maybe you should call Wallace?” Gammaldi added.
“That won’t be necessary. Not a scratch, you said?” Gunther gave them a crooked grin.
“We promise,” Fox replied, slapping Gammaldi on the arm in triumph as Gunther ordered a ground crew to top up the fuel tanks.
“Venice is a good three thousand kilometres from here and this old bird isn’t like that snazzy Gulfstream of yours. She’ll be lucky to get you there at maximum cruising speed,” Gunther said.
“She’ll get us there gloriously,” Fox replied confidently. “And before I forget, I brought you a souvenir.” He fished in his pockets. “Here.”
Gunther took the offered baseball-sized rock and inspected it curiously, apparently surprised by its deceptive weight.
“It’s an extraterrestrial element called theterium. I think your research team will have a field day analysing it—and who knows,” Fox smiled cryptically, “you may even find it useful in your fusion accelerator.”
Gunther studied the dusty amber rock closely. “Theterium?” he repeated, the name obviously meaning little to him. He looked back up at his gleaming jet. “I normally fly myself about, but I have another man here who can do the job for you. I’m simply not up to the task tonight, I’m afraid,” he said.
“That won’t be necessary. Al here is one of the finest pilots in the Australian Navy,” Fox replied.
Gammaldi looked a little stunned at being volunteered for the task.
“Oh?” Gunther attempted to hide his sur
prise. “Okay then, I’d better show you the controls, I suppose,” and he led them off gallantly.
“Thanks a lot,” Gammaldi said quietly from the corner of his mouth.
“No problem,” Fox replied in the same fashion. Gunther stopped at the bottom of the retractable staircase. “You’re sure you can handle this alone?” he said to Gammaldi.
Gammaldi looked from Gunther to Fox and back to Gunther, putting on his most charming face and voice. “As Lachlan says, I’m one of the best. I can fly anything built for the skies.”
“Thanks again,” Gammaldi said, letting off the brakes and struggling to keep the 1984 model 55 Lear jet straight off the mark. The two tweaked Garrett engines pushed out nearly two thousand kilograms of thrust, hurtling the aircraft down the smooth runway with a satisfactory whine and into the dark northern sky.
“A plane’s a plane,” Fox said as he tightened his seatbelt.
“A plane’s a plane in the air,” Gammaldi said, pulling back on the controls as he neared the two-kilometre mark on the runway, effortlessly lifting the jet’s nose into flight. “It’s landing that’s going to be the bitch.”
Fox tightened his seatbelt some more.
64
VENICE
Ivanovich’s Chief of Intelligence awoke his boss from his prone position between two scantily clad women.
“What is it, Mishka?” Ivanovich asked, coming fully awake.
“If you will come to the briefing room?” Mishka said solemnly. “News of the early incursion into Iran has come through.”
“Well tell me, man!” Ivanovich bellowed impatiently as he swung out of the bed and wrapped a heavy robe around his nakedness.
“The reports are somewhat troubling … a bit unclear. It is best you see for yourself,” the Chief of Intelligence said, trying to be diplomatic rather than the bearer of extremely bad news.