by Peter Telep
“Oh my god,” uttered the manager.
The barista suddenly rolled onto his side and exposed his blood-stained teeth.
Mustering all he had left, Jones screamed, “You got nothing!” He fired once more—but the barista had already squeezed his detonator.
They had taken his legs. Now they would get the rest. And the manager, too. But no one else. No one else.
* * *
Sooner, the old cowboy and marina owner, was nice enough to loan Johnny a second and much larger fishing boat, a Wellcraft 340 with large cabin for transporting their prisoner. Johnny had leaned over and whispered in Sooner’s ear: “See this guy over here. Don’t forget his face. You might see a lot more of him.”
Sooner removed his faded Stetson and scratched his head. “Holy shit, Johnny, you’re scaring me.”
“You? Scared? You’re a hero, dude. Thanks for all your help.”
“Y’all don’t thank me. Semper Fi.”
“Semper Fi, roger that.”
Johnny escorted a silent Nazari down to the fishing boat. They departed with an unceremonious rumble of the outboard and with Josh at the wheel.
Their instructions were simple:
Transit now through Fisherman’s Cut and Little Mary’s Cut, then exit into the Gulf of Mexico north of Pelican Island. With Pelican Island abeam to starboard take course 150 at twenty-five knots for one hour.
Johnny passed along the route to Josh, who nodded and said. “They’re playing it by the book.”
“What do you mean?”
“They need to take possession outside the contiguous zone. That’s about twenty-four nautical miles beyond the Texas Mean Low Water Mark.”
“I get it,” Johnny said. “That puts us outside U.S. jurisdiction.”
The UN Law of the Sea Treaty (UNLOS) enacted in 1982 had established that boundary and Johnny recognized the importance of making the exchange outside the U.S. because the CIA was involved.
“Yeah, the spooks don’t like playing in CONUS because in most cases it’s illegal,” said Josh. “But those boys have been known to break a rule or two. And, oh, yeah, can you ask him how we’ll recognize the contact.”
Johnny sent the text, and Brandt replied: you’ll know us when you see us.
* * *
While they were expecting an official vessel—a submarine or a Coast Guard cutter—what greeted them was nothing short of remarkable.
At 228 feet in length, the Water Hazard was one of the world’s largest aluminum and composite private yachts and was registered to famed Texas pro golfer Dennis Perry. Johnny and the others were stunned by the vessel’s immense size. According to Corey, who found stats for the yacht on his phone, she cost over seventy million dollars, had a top speed of seventeen knots, and could cruise 8,000 nautical miles at fifteen and a half knots. She was like a floating chateau sans the vineyard, with many open dining areas, a sunken cocktail lounge, a lap pool, a home theatre, an aquarium, helipad, and guest quarters that rivaled those of the finest hotels on the planet. She was even equipped to service up to thirty divers at one time, along with decompression chambers and every piece of dive and camera gear imaginable. The bridge, Corey noted, was appointed with rare woods, Italian leather, bright brass, and state-of-the-art electronics that afforded it a kind of retro steampunk vibe.
Corey elbowed Johnny and pointed, “Check it out. All the communication antennas are folded horizontal to receive a chopper as soon as they’re out beyond radar range.”
“Roger that.”
“Where will they take him?”
“Hopefully straight to hell.”
They pulled up alongside the aft deck, where a forty-two-foot-long custom built Game Fisher could be launched and returned to its berth inside the yacht. WaveRunners and other, smaller vessels, were also stored onboard. Crew members in bright white uniforms fastened their mooring lines, and two middle-aged men dressed in dark winter coats and wool caps climbed aboard the Wellcraft and shook hands with Johnny and the others.
“All we get is a hello?” Johnny asked. “Not even your names?”
The older of the two remained stoic. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
The agent rolled his eyes. “I’m Louis. My partner’s Tim. Are we good?”
“We’re good now, you old bastard. Nice little boat.”
“It’s a loaner from a Company friend. Best we could do on short notice.”
“No shit. So Louie, why didn’t they say you were coming?”
“I wasn’t—till I heard it was you. Johnny, this is a huge score, man, much bigger than anything we ever pulled off in Iraq. How’d you get him?”
“I don’t know, really, we just—”
“Don’t tell me. Shook some trees?”
Johnny grinned. “Yeah. Easy day.”
“You’re full of shit. So where is this bastard?”
“Down below.”
Willie grabbed Louis’s wrist. “He got banged up a little. Don’t judge us.”
Louis grinned and spoke from the corner of his mouth. “It happens.”
“Take good care of him,” Johnny said with a wink.
As Louis and his partner went below, Willie asked, “Time to go home?”
Johnny sighed. “We’re not finished yet.”
Chapter Fifty
“It’s ironic that after all we went through, Johnny still doesn’t know why Daniel and Reva were murdered. Then again, maybe it’s better he doesn’t know.”
—Corey McKay (FBI interview, 23 December)
“My name is Joe Koos, Special Agent in Charge, Houston Division, Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’re here at the La Quinta Hotel, Lake Jackson, Texas. Current time is four forty-five p.m., twenty-three December. Present are Mr. Johnny Johansen of Topsail Beach, North Carolina, along with special agents Kevin Clark, Brad Whidden, and Ryan Seebeck.” SAC Koos, a graying redhead of medium build and small blue eyes, switched off his digital recorder and added, “You know what? Let’s talk off the record before we proceed.”
“That works.”
“So, Johnny, Mark filled me in on as much as he could, but obviously we need to hear it all from you.”
“No problem. Just a quick question. Where’s Plesner?”
“Assistant Director Plesner is missing.”
Johnny snorted. “What about Dresden and Senecal?”
“Mr. Senecal, we believe, is up in Toronto. He made several attempts to contact Dresden this morning, prior to the attacks.”
“So go up there and get him.”
“It’s more complicated than that. We can’t extradite him if the Canadians know the death penalty will be imposed, and in this case, I’m sure it will be. We’ll get assistance from the mounted police and the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, but I’m sure he’s already gone into hiding.”
“And Dresden?”
“He stabbed his wife then shot himself in the head this morning. A neighbor called it in.”
“Guilty conscience.”
“Or maybe he realized you guys were on to him.”
Johnny frowned. “Doubt it.”
“Look, if what you and Mark claim is true, then we have a massive security breach, and there’s no way of knowing how long Plesner’s reach is inside the Bureau. He might have allies still feeding him intel.” Koos frowned at his recorder. “We wouldn’t want anything you say to bleed back to him.”
“Roger that. So have you launched a manhunt?”
“Absolutely. Intel on him is being passed along a select chain of command, face-to-face, and on a strict need to know basis. We’ve organized a special task force involving all the alphabet agencies. We’ll find him.”
“Well, if you don’t, give us a call.”
“You don’t want to go there, Johnny.”
“What do you mean? I’ve been there for the last couple of weeks, while you people were being duped by your own boss. But don’t call me bitter. I’m just a dumbass Marine—or so your b
oss thought.”
Koss pursed his lips. He seemed to mull over a reply, changed his mind, then simply asked, “Are you ready to talk?”
Johnny leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, then measured his words. “First, let me say this. Those boys in the other room? I’ve known them for years. I want you to understand why they helped me and why everything they did is still my responsibility—no matter what they tell you.”
“You’re not in trouble, Johnny. Just the opposite.”
“I wish I could believe you, but a man in my situation can go from he-ro to ze-ro in no time. Doesn’t matter, though. If somebody has to take the fall, then let it be me.”
* * *
By 1900 an exhausted Johnny and the others were prepared to leave the hotel and begin the twenty-hour drive home. However, SAC Koos reminded them that Charles Plesner, along with his jihadi allies, still wanted them dead. Koos insisted they spend the night at the hotel under FBI protection. Meanwhile, he would make arrangements for them to be driven back to North Carolina with FBI escorts. Vehicles and agents would be changed between field offices to maintain security. Once they arrived in North Carolina, Johnny should stay at a location unknown to the jihadis. The FBI would maintain protection and surveillance of the area for no less than a week afterward. Johnny should accept this without argument.
“You putting us under house arrest?” Willie asked Koos.
“Not at all. Like I said, it’s for your own protection.”
Willie smirked. “Maybe you’re the ones who need protection.”
The agent shook his head. “Nice.”
* * *
At 2105 Corey, Josh, and their “escort” returned from a local grocery store with sandwiches and twelve packs of Michelob Ultra. They sat around Johnny’s room and watched the news. CNN was now reporting that some veteran Marine named “Johnny Johansen” had warned of the attacks with a detailed list and that the number of incidents had grown to over 100. Reporters were trying to locate Mr. Johansen and ask how he acquired the list. Computer geeks had traced Johansen’s IP address to Seadrift, Texas.
“What are you going to do, Johnny?” Corey asked.
“About what?”
“About becoming famous.”
“Look here, we did the Bureau and the Agency a huge favor, so they’re doing one for me. They’ll help bury this to keep our families safe and allow us to do business. Besides, I ain’t Johnny. My name’s James Clayton Johansen. That’s a common last name. I’m good to go.”
“I don’t know,” said Willie. “I think they’ll find you. Pictures will float online.”
“We’ll see.”
The news was interrupted by a press conference in which the POTUS announced that the National Guard was now under federal authority, Martial Law was currently in effect, and all commercial, corporate, and private aircraft were temporarily grounded until at least 0900 Eastern Standard Time tomorrow. U.S. Army troops had been deployed along the Mexican and Canadian borders to augment U.S. Customs and Border Protection assets. Every Islamic enclave and social center in the United States was now under National Guard security for fear of retaliatory attacks. Federal and state investigations had been launched to apprehend and bring to justice all those involved in these cowardly acts. The Central Intelligence Agency had already captured a High Value Target and possible mastermind behind the attacks. That individual, whose identity was being withheld for reasons of national security, was now being questioned by authorities. FEMA representatives were on the ground in all fifty states to support local, State, and Federal authorities in responding to the attacks by using unique consequence management authorities, responsibilities, and capabilities.
The press conference lasted another ten minutes, after which field reporters began an extensive story on the bridge disaster in New London, interviewing several motorists who had barely escaped the collapse. Spokespersons from the U.S. Navy announced that at least one Trident ballistic missile submarine from Kings Bay, Georgia; two Los Angeles class submarines from Norfolk, Virginia; and two Virginia class submarines also from Norfolk were being relocated to the Electric Boat piers, New London to maintain readiness in that area. Rescues and body recoveries were still underway, and vehicle and bridge debris removal from the Thames River channel would commence in the days to come. All I-95 north and southbound traffic needed to bypass New London and join with I-395 to access destinations north and south of New England and beyond. Survey teams would be assembled to investigate possible sites for a new bridge and/or turnpike bypass loop to reconnect I-95 north of the submarine base. This was a long range project because such a bypass would cut through heavily populated areas and legal issues involving eminent domain needed to be resolved.
The coverage continued, moving west to the Hoover Dam. Johnny sighed in disgust over images of the damaged intake towers accompanied by a sidebar of the explosions captured by a phone camera, the towers dropping in the flickering light.
“I saw this earlier,” Willie said. “They said two years to rebuild. They opened the bypass spillways to feed the river downstream to the lakes and dams. They need to relocate the power distribution, too. Looks like rolling blackouts in Vegas. What happens in Vegas... well nothing happens right now. Nellis and Creech Air Force Bases have first dibs on the power.”
“It’s not all bad,” said Corey. “They estimate that sixty to seventy of the smaller attacks were either stopped or suppressed by Marines, along with our sister services, who answered the call. We did good, Johnny.”
“Right on,” Willie grunted.
Johnny shut his eyes and saw Staff Sergeant Paul Oliver answering that same call in Fallujah all those years ago.
By the time he opened his eyes, another report focused on the North Anna Nuclear Power Plant attack. The station would continue operating under special contaminated restrictions during clean up of its adjacent spent nuclear fuel storage site. Experts already predicted that the shellfish fishing industry, seafood processing, and the tourism industry in the mid-Atlantic region was already destroyed, costing thousands of jobs and millions in revenue. Despite frequent government public service announcements to the contrary, the public would be unwilling to ingest seafood harvested from the Chesapeake Bay area or allow their kids to stick so much as a big toe into the Atlantic Ocean within one hundred and fifty miles of the contaminated zone. Images of the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant disaster were still fresh in the public’s mind. An environmentalist reporting via phone noted that the bay supported 3,600 species of plant and animal life, including more than 300 fish species and 2,700 plant types. There was no way to contain the spread of contamination via these fish, birds, and plant species or to estimate the impact of possible genetic mutations in subsequent generations.
And worse, the Chesapeake Bay watershed included parts of six states and was home to some seventeen million people, including the cities of Washington, D.C., and Baltimore, Maryland. The watershed's many rivers were the primary source for drinking water. Finding alternate potable water for the region would become a secondary crisis.
Meanwhile, out west, the Palo Verde nuclear power plant was operating only one of its three pressurized water reactors at a time to conserve coolant water until repairs to remote piping and pumping stations could be completed. Best estimate was five to eight weeks. Four million customers serviced by the nation’s largest nuclear power plant were already experiencing severe rolling blackouts, and the winter temperatures were exacerbating the situation.
A reporter on scene at Jamaica Station wept on camera as the death toll there climbed to over one hundred, with 476 injured. There were nearly as many causalities at Woodside Station, but these were only preliminary estimates, with numbers sure to climb. The damage was still being assessed, but congestion the likes of which New Yorkers had never seen was sure to paralyze roads and highways as those train commuters resorted to cars.
The two oil refineries attacked in Louisiana and the tank farm in Houston were
all but destroyed. The economic impact on the nation was immeasurable at this time. Some economists predicted that gasoline prices could more than double in the weeks and months to come.
In an interview that turned into a shouting match, a congressman from Oklahoma argued that the government should impose a mandatory draft for the National Guard to meet the threat of an enemy inside our homeland. He stressed that these could be the first of many more attacks, and were it not for the brave citizens mobilized by social media, many more lives would have been lost. “We need to make changes to the federal death penalty laws so we can execute all of these jihadis regardless of their level of participation.” He was counterattacked by a congressman from Colorado who said we should not overreact and more carefully consider our response because the world was watching our reactions. While they screamed at each other, Willie, Josh, and Corey shouted at the TV.
Johnny drifted away from the group and into the bedroom, where he shut the door and dialed Elina. He trembled like a schoolboy as the phone rang and, after an eternity, she answered.
“Hey, you...”
Her voice cracked. “Thank God you’re okay. I guess you’ve been busy.”
“Little bit. How’re you doing? How’re the girls?”
“We’ve been watching the TV.”
“I figured.”
“You put out that list. How did you know?”
“Long story. And for now, let’s keep it quiet. So, uh, I need you to pack up. Tell Matt and Jada that an FBI agent will meet you down there. He’ll escort you up to Josh’s house. We’ll stay there for a little while till we sort this out. Now I have to go.”
“Okay, see you soon. And Johnny?”
“Yeah?”
“I hope you found what you were looking for.”
Suddenly, Johnny was a little boy again, leading Daniel across the plywood bridges, through the swampland, and toward little league practice. He was so overcome with emotion that he could barely speak. “Hey,” he whispered. “I love you.”