Code of Conduct

by Brad Thor

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  For my outstanding literary agent, Heide Lange.

  What a ride! Thank you for every magnificent second.

  “If you must break the law, do it to seize power.”

  —JULIUS CAESAR

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  When word leaked that the President had been taken to the Bethesda Naval Hospital for observation, panic set in. If the President of the United States wasn’t safe from the virus, no one was.

  Scot Harvath swerved around the car in front of him and sped through the intersection as the light changed. The traffic was worsening. Quarantine rumors had sent people rushing to stores to stock up.

  “We don’t need to do this,” the woman sitting next to him said.

  What she meant was that he didn’t need to do this. He could leave too. He didn’t have to stay behind in D.C.

  “I’ve already talked to Jon and his wife,” he replied. “You’ll be safe there.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be okay. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  He was lying. It was a white lie, meant to make her feel better, but it was a lie nonetheless. They were already talking about shutting down air traffic. That’s why he needed to get her out tonight.

  “What if we’re overreacting?” she asked.

  “We’re not.”

  Lara knew he was right. She had seen the projections. Even the “best case” numbers were devastating. The cities would be the hardest hit. Hospitals were already at surge capacity, and were being overrun by otherwise healthy people who had convinced themselves they were showing one or more of the symptoms. It was beginning to make it impossible for real emergencies like heart attack and acute asthma sufferers to be seen. And it was only going to get worse.

  Cities, towns, and villages from coast to coast scrambled to figure out how they would continue to deliver essential services, much less deal with the staggering number of bodies if the death toll reached even half of what was being predicted. In a word, they couldn’t.

  As they succumbed to the virus, or stayed home to protect their own families, fewer and fewer first responders would be available. Soon, 911 call centers would go down. After that, water treatment facilities and power plants. Hospitals, pharmacies, and grocery stores would have all long ceased operating—the majority of them looted and burned to the ground. Chaos and anarchy would reign.

  The only people who might hope to survive were those who had exercised some degree of caution and had prepared in advance. But even then, there was still no guarantee. Riding in the wake of Death and his pale horse was another force that would prove just as devastating—those who planned to take advantage of the chaos.

  Suddenly, two blue-and-white Department of Homeland Security Suburbans spun around the corner and came racing toward them, their lights and sirens blaring.

  Harvath jerked his wheel hard to the right to get out of their way. Even then, he came within inches of being hit before the DHS vehicles swerved back into their lane.

  Lara turned in her seat as they sped past. “Jesus!” she exclaimed. “Did you see that? They almost hit us.”

  The chaos had officially started.

  Before he could respond, his cell phone rang. “Good,” he said, after listening to the voice on the other end. “We’re ten minutes away.”

  Disconnecting the call, he pressed harder on the accelerator and told her, “The plane just landed. Everything will be ready by the time we get there.”

  Nearing the private aviation section of Reagan International, there was a sea of limousines and black Town Cars. He wasn’t the only one who had seen the writing on the wall. Those who could get out were getting out now.

  Not wanting to get tied up in the parking lot, he pulled to the side of the road near the entrance and hopped out to get Lara’s bag.

  Opening the rear of his Tahoe, he plugged his combination into one of the drawers of his TruckVault and pulled it open.

  “I already have my duty weapon,” Lara said. “Plus, my credentials and extra ammo.”

  She was always armed. He knew that. Removing a small, hard-sided Pelican Case, he handed it to her. “Just in case,” he said.

  Lara popped the latches and flipped open the lid. “Sat phone?” she asked.

  Harvath nodded. “If this gets worse, the cell phone network won’t stay up for long.”

  “Is my cell even going to work up there?”

  “Once you leave Anchorage, you might as well turn it off until you get to the lodge. There’s no cell service there, but you can make calls over their WiFi.”

  Removing the battery cover, he showed her where he had taped the number for the sat phone he kept in his bug-out bag. If everything failed, the sat phones would be their fallback.

  Closing up the Tahoe, he picked up her bag and walked with her to the Signature Flight Support building. Inside, it was pandemonium.

  Wealthy families jostled with corporate executives to speed the departure of their jets. There were mountains of luggage and from what he overheard, a vast array of destinations—Jackson Hole, Eleuthera, Costa Rica, Kauai—likely second or third home locations where they hoped to ride out the storm.

  Harvath spotted their copilot who took Lara’s bag and the Pelican Case and walked them out to the jet.

  Harvath didn’t want a long goodbye. He wanted them in the air as quickly as possible.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her. It felt detached, distant. His mind had already left the airport. It was on to the dangerous assignment that lay in front of him.

  “It’s still not too late,” she said.

  It was and she knew it.

  “You need to get going,” he replied, giving her one more kiss as he broke off their hug.

  “See me onto the plane.”

  It was too loud on the tarmac to hear the chime, but he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he read the message. Now he really needed to go.

  “I can’t,” he said, kissing her one last time. “Let me know when you get there.”

  With that, he turned and walked back to the Signature Flight Support building.

  •••

  As soon as he was inside, he called the person who had texted him. “Are you positive about this?” he asked.

  “One hundred percent,” the voice on the other end responded.

  “How long do I have?”

  “Could be hours. Could be days. What are you going to do?”

  “What would you do?” Harvath asked.

  “Get my affairs in order and hope it’s painless.”

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  ITURI PROVINCE

  DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO

  ONE WEEK EARLIER

  The heavy truck rolled through the early morning darkness. Mist clung to the damp jungle road.

  Scot Harvath pulled out his phone and watched the video again. How many times had he seen it now? A hundred? Two hundred?

  It was shaky and parts were out of focus. A team in biohazard suits could be seen going into a small medical clinic. Moments later, there were muzzle flashes and gunfire. Then nothing.

  The
footage had been emailed to CARE International, the U.S.-based charitable organization that had helped establish the clinic. The video quickly made its way to CARE’s founder, businessman cum philanthropist, Ben Beaman.

  Over the next several hours, Beaman tried to contact the Matumaini Clinic in eastern Congo. No one replied. Finally, he hit the panic button and reached out to the most senior person he knew at the State Department. But with no Americans at the clinic at the time, there was little the State Department could do. It was “outside their mission,” as his contact informed him. The man offered to make some calls on his behalf, but told Beaman not to get his hopes up.

  Beaman saw CARE as a family. An attack on one of them was an attack on all of them. He made no distinction whether the person was from Kinshasa or Kansas City. If the State Department wouldn’t help, he’d have to look elsewhere.

  But where? Even if he knew someone there, the FBI and CIA were just as likely to say no. Some tiny African clinic in the middle of nowhere was outside everyone’s “mission.” But there had to be someone who could help him.

  Which had gotten him thinking.

  When one of his doctors had been kidnapped from the CARE hospital in Afghanistan, a particularly resourceful man had been hired to fly over and get her back. That was the kind of help he needed.

  It took Beaman several phone calls to track Scot Harvath down. He was working for a private intelligence company that didn’t advertise. They didn’t need to.

  The majority of the Carlton Group’s work had previously been via black contracts through the Department of Defense. Now, though, they were finding themselves repeatedly tasked on covert operations by the White House and the Central Intelligence Agency.

  There had been a rough patch when the Carlton Group had no choice but to take anything that came their way, but that was in the past. They seldom took private assignments anymore. When they did, there had to be a compelling reason.

  Similar to Doctors Without Borders, CARE went where few dared and even fewer wanted to go. From Mumbai to Mogadishu, they had set up shop in some of the worst poverty-stricken backwaters of the third world.

  While there, CARE’s western volunteers not only treated locals but helped local medical personnel improve their skills. They were good people who did good things for those in desperate need. The organization was also one that was no stranger to violence.

  Over the years, their facilities and personnel had experienced a handful of attacks. They took security seriously, but there was only so much they could afford to do. They wanted to use as much of their money as possible helping people. That was their mission.

  They had been planning to open two more clinics in Congo, but Beaman had put a temporary stop to those. Until they knew what had happened at the Matumaini Clinic, they weren’t moving on anything.

  While the U.S. Government didn’t like to use NGOs for covert operations, the Carlton Group’s founder had a different view. He had a couple of relationships already, but nothing like CARE. Getting them into his back pocket could be invaluable.

  Even better, Beaman had offered to pay the Carlton Group a significant premium. It was a dangerous assignment and Beaman appreciated the risks. He only had one stipulation. He wanted Scot Harvath leading the operation.

  Right out of the gate, they had a problem. Technically, Harvath wasn’t available.

  He had been working at a furious tempo and had just come off of a hellacious operation in Syria. Everything at home had been put on hold, and that included his relationship.

  She lived in Boston and Harvath lived outside D.C., near Alexandria. The distance made things difficult enough. What was making it almost impossible, though, was how many times Harvath had rescheduled with her or had left the country entirely without giving her any notice at all. She had asked him to put one week on the books, then set it in stone, wrap it in bulletproof Kevlar, and bury it under fifty feet of concrete.

  Harvath picked one, went to Carlton, and had him sprinkle holy water on the dates. The deal was done.

  They would take in New England’s fall colors. She pulled strings at work to have the same week off. She rented the perfect cottage on the water and convinced the Realtor to take delivery of two cases of their favorite wine. It would be a great surprise.

  They would stop at her favorite general store on the way and stock up on supplies. Once they arrived at the cottage, the wine would be there and they wouldn’t have to leave for anything. The master bedroom had enormous windows and they could watch the colors peak from there. It was exactly what they needed.

  When Reed Carlton, or the “Old Man” as Harvath referred to him, called, he got right to the point. “You’ve got a meeting in the office tomorrow morning. Be here by seven-thirty. Wear a suit.”

  Obviously, somebody important was coming in, but Carlton hadn’t offered up any details. Typical. The old spymaster never revealed more than he wanted anyone to know.

  Harvath didn’t mind. He was used to it by now. He was also already half checked out, looking forward to a week away up in New England.

  The next morning, the five-foot-ten Harvath showed up at the Carlton Group’s offices in Reston, Virginia, coffee in hand, wearing a coal gray Ralph Lauren suit, white shirt, and a dark blue tie. With only cardio for his workouts overseas, he had dropped about ten pounds from his already fit frame.

  His blue eyes stood out against his tan skin, and his sandy brown hair appeared lighter. In the mirror that morning, he had looked more like a beach-going Southern California college student, than a U.S. Navy SEAL turned covert counterterrorism operative.

  The Old Man was already in the conference room with their guest. Harvath stepped in and was introduced to Ben Beaman, the Director of CARE International.

  After Harvath asked how the doctor he had rescued in Afghanistan was doing, Carlton invited everyone to take their seats and then steered the conversation to the matter at hand.

  Beaman had brought his laptop and ran both men through a quick PowerPoint about the Matumaini Clinic. The slides included pictures of the facility, its staff, and the people they served, mostly families with children.

  The clinic’s name came from the Swahili word for hope. It was deep in the jungle near the border with Uganda—the only medical facility for over two hundred kilometers. It boasted fifteen beds, an exam room that doubled as a laboratory, and a small dispensary.

  Beaman’s final slide contained the video of the attack. He pushed the play button and the three men watched.

  When it was over, Beaman closed his laptop and sat back in his chair. “That’s all we know,” he had said.

  The Old Man activated a flat screen beyond the conference table. On it, he explained, was recent satellite footage he had acquired.

  When he clicked a small wireless device, the image was magnified, coming to rest on a small clearing that had been hacked out of the dense jungle. In the center was Beaman’s clinic.

  There was no sign of anyone anywhere near it.

  Carlton held up his index finger as if to say, “There’s something else,” and then drew their attention back to the screen.

  Manipulating the wireless device, he refocused the image, northwest of the clinic. There, they could see what looked like a long, scorched trench at the base of a hill. Tendrils of black smoke curled into the air from it.

  “Any idea what that is?” the Old Man asked.

  Beaman shook his head.

  “Looks like a burn pit,” Harvath replied. “A big one.”

  Carlton nodded. “I agree. Any thoughts on what they were burning?”

  “I don’t think it was trash.”

  Beaman looked from one man to the other, and the volume of his voice dropped. “Do you think they were burning bodies?”

  The Old Man switched off the satellite footage. “It could be anything.”

  “But what if
it is bodies?” he replied. “What if those are women and children? Our staff and patients?” He shifted his gaze to Harvath and asked, “If it’s not trash, what is it?”

  Harvath had been to more war-ravaged areas than he cared to remember. He had seen things beyond horrible. The worth of a culture, in his opinion, could be boiled down to one thing—how well that culture took care of its weakest members, particularly its women and children.

  The satellite image of the burn pit brought back a flood of memories, none of them pleasant, none of them things he wanted to remember. Something about it, though, was odd. He tried to put his finger on it and when he couldn’t, he relegated it to the back of his mind.

  “Mr. Carlton is right,” Harvath conceded. “It could be anything.”

  For a moment, Beaman didn’t know how to respond. “But we all agree, it probably wasn’t trash.”

  Harvath looked to the Old Man, then back at Beaman, and nodded.

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the conference room. Finally, Beaman broke it. “Mr. Harvath, I want to find out what happened. Scratch that,” he said, correcting himself. “I have to find out what happened. I owe it to those people, to all of my people. If this had happened to a team you were responsible for, I don’t doubt that you’d feel the same way.”

  Harvath began to understand where this was headed. Beaman wanted him to lead the operation.

  If their places were reversed, of course Harvath would want to know what had happened to his team. But this wasn’t about a team of his. This was about Beaman’s people, and there was a lot more to this story. It wasn’t as simple as flying over and figuring out what had happened.

  Congo was the world’s deadliest conflict zone. Five and a half million dead in less than twenty years. Invasions from neighboring countries, wars, political instability—it was like a match factory, if match factories also stored buckets of gasoline and hung lit sparklers from the ceiling. Calling it unstable was too generous by half.