File Zero
Page 25
But the glider, at least, had bought them time; it had slowed their descent a lot, so now, as he looked down, Zero saw that they only had about twenty feet before impact. It would hurt, and it would be freezing, but it wouldn’t kill them.
They plunged into the water with an impact that was as jarring as it was freezing. Pierson slipped away from his grip as Zero tumbled twice in the river, struggling to free himself from the glider that was now keeping him from reaching the surface again. He clawed at it, his limbs screaming against the knife-like sting of the frigid water.
Somehow he managed to tear himself loose from the backpack. He swam for the surface, hoping against hope that the president hadn’t succumbed to shock in the icy river.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Commander Ali Mahasi stood upon the bow of the Jamar, an Iranian Moudge-class frigate and lead ship of the blockade facing the Persian Gulf. He scratched at his dark beard idly; it was a tic he had developed years earlier, scratching at his chin whenever he was in a particularly pensive position—as he found himself currently.
The Jamar was a ninety-five-meter-long ship, among the larger vessels in the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, outfitted with anti-submarine torpedoes, surface-to-air missiles, and anti-ship box launchers.
Yet the threat that they faced currently was hardly one they were prepared to deal with.
Ship from the United States’ Fifth Fleet had come from seemingly every direction, less than a mile between them and the Strait of Hormuz, where the Iranian blockade waited. If they wanted to destroy the IRGC vessels, they could do so in mere minutes. Yet they seem to have stalled their approach, and Mahasi could do nothing but watch and wait.
President Sarif had ordered the blockade and nothing more. They were not to go on the offensive, and while the commander thought that it was a foolhardy decision given what the Americans had already done, there were rumors circulating that Sarif held out hope that he could reach a diplomatic solution. The decision to close the strait had been one of necessity, but the president would not openly declare war against the US. Commander Mahasi had heard directly from the IRGC commodore that attempts to reach the American president had thus far proved fruitless.
We are waiting here to die, Mahasi thought bitterly. If it was up to him, the entirety of the Iranian fleet would fire everything they had, in concert, and destroy as many as they could at once. He doubted the Americans would stand long for the strait’s closure. It would not be long before…
“Sir.” Behind Mahasi, his communications officer cleared his throat.
“Yes, Mahmoud?”
“One of the American ships is hailing us, Commander.”
“What do they want?”
Mahmoud hesitated. “They won’t say. They… asked to speak to you specifically.”
Mahasi’s nostrils flared. They want to make their demands, he thought. They will order the IRGC to stand down, or be destroyed. The moment was up. And he, it seemed, was the one who would speak on behalf of Iran.
Mahasi briskly followed Mahmoud to the bridge and fit a headset over his ears. “This is Commander Mahasi of the Jamar,” he said crisply. “Identify yourself.”
“My name is Lieutenant Davis of the USS Constitution.” The US naval officer spoke almost flawless Farsi. “Commander, I am contacting you not on behalf of the United States, or the Fifth Fleet, but that of the men and women who serve upon our vessels. It is vital that we negotiate a cease-fire between us. No more lives lost, Commander.”
What? A cease-fire? Mahasi furrowed his brow in confusion. “And you speak for your captain and admiral?”
“I do not, sir. The commanding officers of the Fifth Fleet have been compromised and deemed no longer fit for leadership.”
The Iranian commander could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Is this a deceit?”
“No, Commander Mahasi,” said the American lieutenant. “This is mutiny.”
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Zero coughed up a mouthful of river water as he gripped a dark, craggy rock on the northwestern shore of Roosevelt Island. His right arm was bent around Pierson’s shoulder, dragging him along as they reached shallow water.
The president’s face was pale, his eyes closed and lips blue. Zero knew he had to get him out of the water, administer CPR, and hope to any higher power that was listening that he was still alive.
Above and just north of them, pieces of the Queensboro Bridge continued to collapse and fall, splashing down into the water below. It seemed that the lower level had been evacuated, save for the unfortunate souls who had been within the immediate blast zone of the RPGs.
Zero winced as a trio of screaming F-16 jets soared overhead. As he watched, a single Sidewinder missile fired forward and obliterated the hijacked Coast Guard skiff in an instant fireball. The jets pulled up, over the bridge, and banked around the island of Manhattan.
It seemed that the day had been won, by most accounts, but Zero had no strength left in his body. He was completely and utterly exhausted; even pulling himself further up on the rocks seemed insurmountable, let alone providing any aid to Pierson.
“Help,” he tried to call out, but his voice was hoarse and rasping, barely more than a harsh whisper. “Someone.” There was no one around; it looked as if Roosevelt Island had been evacuated as well, but there couldn’t possibly have been enough time for that. The entire ordeal had unfolded in mere minutes.
“Please.” He clutched at Pierson, struggling to get him turned on his side in case he had swallowed too much water. Even if Zero had strength left, chest compressions with a broken hand would have been difficult. “Anyone?”
“Zero!” A voice. A male voice. Zero looked up the sloping, rocky shore, squinting against the bright afternoon sun as a silhouette picked his way carefully down toward them. “Looks like you need some help.”
He knew that voice.
Carver knelt beside him, looking him over in a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Told you I’d be here.” He chuckled lightly. “I saw you two jump off the bridge. Goddamn, Zero. You don’t half-ass anything, do you?”
“Help him,” Zero panted. But something in Carver’s expression made him very much doubt that help had arrived.
“What, is he still alive?” Carver scoffed and leaned over Zero to feel Pierson’s pulse. “I’ll be damned. Well, that won’t do.”
A cold shudder ran up Zero’s spine.
Carver had never intended on helping him. He had led Zero here, into the midst of all of this.
“Help!” he tried to shout again.
“No one’s going to hear you,” Carver told him. “We sent everyone on the island down to the southern tip, away from the bridge. Ferries are coming to get them. There’s no one out here but me and you.”
Zero heard the steady thrum of helicopters, and for a moment he had hope that help was on the way. He craned his neck as best he could, his muscles aching in protest.
But the red and white rescue choppers were not headed toward the island; they were going to the bridge.
“Is it…” Zero coughed violently. “Is it worth it?”
“Yeah,” Carver nodded. “It is.” He stood, lifted one boot, and put it gently against Zero’s throat, easing downward as if pushing a pedal, cutting off Zero’s airway. He sputtered and clutched at the boot with his left hand, but he couldn’t move it. It might as well have been a car on top of him for all he could do about it.
His arm shaking, Zero lifted his bandaged right hand and pointed it at Carver. He pulled the trigger of the LC9.
But nothing happened. The gun was waterlogged and useless.
“Goodbye, Zero. I’ll put in a good word, see what I can do about making you a hero.”
His vision blurred. His lungs burned for air, his mouth opening with gulps of nothing, like a fish out of water.
Carver leaned over him. “We’re still going to have to kill your friends, though. Your kids, too. Sorry.”
His vision darkened as im
ages of Sara and Maya flickered across his mind. Alan will keep them safe. He had to tell himself that; if this was going to be his last moment, he had to believe that.
Suddenly Carver yelped. The boot lifted from Zero’s throat and he sucked in a liberal gulp of air as Carver fell forward across the rocks.
“That’s enough, Jason.” A deep voice, familiar, flat and almost emotionless.
Watson.
Zero pushed himself to his elbow with a heavy groan as Carver rolled over, a thin knife stuck just above his right kidney. Agent Watson stood on the rocks, pistol in hand, but there was no one behind him. It seemed he’d come alone.
“Oh, you son of a bitch,” Carver gasped. “In the back, John?” He yanked the knife out with a small yelp as Watson hovered over him and pointed the Glock. “You shoot me,” Carver huffed, “and NYPD will be here in seconds. SWAT. FBI. How are you going to explain that you shot a CIA agent that was trying to save the president from a criminal?”
“I’m not going to shoot you,” Watson said passively. He put out a hand and Zero took it, pulling himself to a seated position. Then he flipped the Glock around in his palm and held it, handle out.
Zero took it. “Thanks,” he murmured. “Maria. Is she okay?”
Watson nodded as he knelt beside Pierson. “She helped evac the lower level of the bridge.” He gently lifted the president’s neck and started chest compressions.
Zero saw Carver reaching for his hip and quickly turned the pistol on him. “Stop. I don’t want to kill you.” That wasn’t really the case; he would’ve very much liked to shoot Carver on the spot. “I want to bring you in. Make you talk. Force you to give up all your intel, all your contacts in this plot.”
Carver grinned, even as he winced in pain. “All right, Zero. I’ll give you intel. Let’s start with this little tidbit. You know, me and John were partners for a long time. I knew all his dirty secrets.”
Watson paused briefly, glancing up at his former partner, but said nothing. He pinched off Pierson’s nasal passage and leaned over, performing ventilation.
“You know what he did to you?” Carver asked. “To your family?”
“What are you talking about?” Zero asked quietly. His hand shook; he hardly had the strength to keep the Glock aloft.
“He never told you?” Carver said snidely. “Of course he didn’t.”
They didn’t mean it. They didn’t know the truth.
“Our pal John here isn’t just handy with knives and guns. Sometimes… well, sometimes he’s downright poison.”
Zero’s hand trembled even as Watson continued to administer CPR.
They were following an order, just like I was. We were all lied to.
With his last ounce of strength, Zero forced the gun upward and fired two shots.
The first hit Carver in the clavicle. The second, just to the left of his nose. The renegade agent’s head snapped back and he fell against the rocks.
Both of Zero’s arms fell limply at his sides as Watson performed CPR on the president. Finally Pierson coughed, expelling river water from his lungs as he came around.
“Lie still, Mr. President,” Watson told him. “Don’t try to move.”
The president sputtered between them, lying on his back with his head tilted to one side. Zero’s vision blurred again, this time from the threat of tears.
But they weren’t tears of sorrow or misery. They were tears of anger.
Watson leaned back slowly and sat against a rock as sirens wailed somewhere on Roosevelt Island, the sound of the police responding to the shots fired.
“I want to hear it from you,” Zero murmured.
“I suppose you deserve that.” Watson sighed through his nose. “I went into the museum where she was working under the pretense of delivering a package. I dosed her tea with TTX. I didn’t know who she was or why the agency wanted her dead. I found out the truth afterward, when I saw the obituary and learned your real name. But that doesn’t matter now.” His gaze met Zero’s, and he could see the genuine sorrow that Watson was so good at hiding. “I killed your wife, Kent. I would tell you I’m sorry, but that’s hardly going to matter either.”
Zero looked down at the Glock in his fist. He understood now why Watson had given it to him. It wasn’t just to kill Carver. It was to make a choice. And he deserved that too.
His hands shook. This man had saved his life, had helped him when he needed it most, had even saved the lives of both of his daughters on more than one occasion. Zero had questioned it in the past, but now he knew the truth.
It wasn’t help. It was penance.
“You do what you feel you need to do,” Watson said. “The cops will be here soon.”
Pierson wheezed, lying on his back with his eyes shut. In his half-drowned state, Zero doubted the president would recall much of what occurred right there on the island’s shore.
So he made his decision. His grip shaky and his arm weak, Zero lifted the Glock once more with what felt like his last ounce of strength.
And he hurled it into the East River.
“Go.” His voice sounded like little more than a hissed whisper. “Disappear. Don’t ever come back. If I see you again, I swear to God I’ll kill you.”
Watson nodded once. He rose to his feet and made his way along the shore, stepping carefully over the rocks away from them.
The sirens blared closer as Zero sat there in the afternoon sun. It was a beautiful day. But he just felt cold.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Secretary of Defense Quentin Rigby jogged down the hall of the Pentagon toward his office. He felt the spike of a migraine coming on like an ice pick at the front of his skull.
Everything had gone upside-down. Pierson was alive. He’d been found on the shore of Roosevelt Island with three complex fractures and multiple contusions, but very much alive—and in the company of one Agent Zero.
There was only one way out of this that Rigby could think of, only one way to even begin to right what had been wronged: swift and irreversible action in the Fifth Fleet. Complete devastation of IRGC forces. The UN be damned; their plan could not fail now. They’d come too far and spent too much.
Rigby hurried into his office, pausing only to slam the door behind him and twist the lock before snatching up the red telephone on his desk. “This is General Rigby,” he said quickly, before dispatch could ask him for identity. “Connect me to Captain Warren on the USS Constitution immediately!”
He waited for the satellite connection, pacing back and forth in front of the desk as far as the telephone’s cord would stretch. His cell phone rang from his pocket; he pulled it out to see the name “Holmes” on the screen.
He ignored it. The chief of staff would have to wait. This was more important.
*
Lieutenant Cohen watched from behind the radar array as Captain Warren plucked up the red phone on the bridge of the USS Constitution. “This is Captain Warren. Mm-hmm. Yes, sir.” The captain lowered the phone and turned briskly to XO Nathan, who stood nearby at attention with both hands clasped behind his back.
“Nathan, give the order to fire missiles,” Warren stated firmly. “Target any IRGC ships within range.”
Cohen’s throat felt tight. This was it, the moment that would define whether they would start a war or rebel against their own authority.
“No, sir.” Nathan stared Warren down. “We will not fire upon those ships without provocation.”
Warren’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What did you just say?”
From the communications array beside him, Cohen saw Davis stir. He rose to his feet, as did Cohen. XO Nathan unclasped his hands from behind his back.
One of them held a black pistol.
Nathan did not point the gun at the captain, but held it in front of him in an almost casual manner. “Captain Warren, we are relieving you of duty. We’re going to escort you to the brig now. I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether you’d like to come quietly, or by force.”
Warren dropped the red phone. The cord went taut and the receiver clattered against the steel wall. “This is mutiny,” he hissed.
“Yes, sir. Mutiny in the interest of saving lives.” Nathan nodded to Davis. “Lieutenant, if you would.”
Davis reached for his belt, where he had stowed a pair of handcuffs for the occasion. Warren’s gaze flitted toward the door to the bridge, the nearest exit, but Nathan stepped into his path. “Please, sir. Let’s not make this any more difficult than—”
Captain Warren bolted forward and put up both hands in an effort to shove the XO away. But Nathan was taller, built solidly, and Warren bounced from him like a rubber ball against concrete. Davis was on him in a second, forcing one arm behind the captain’s back and cuffing him even as Warren squirmed and shouted in protest.
“You’ll all be court-martialed for this!” he bellowed. “You’ll spend the rest of your lives in prison!”
“Maybe,” the XO said as he hauled the cuffed Warren to his feet. “But at least we won’t have any more deaths on our conscience.” He and Davis escorted Warren off the bridge, heading down to the brig.
Cohen rose from his seat slowly, half in disbelief. They’d done it. But the red phone was still swinging from its cord. He picked it up, about to replace it on its cradle, but then thought better of it and put it to his ear.
“This is Lieutenant Cohen,” he said into the phone. “Who am I speaking with?”
The voice was male, definitely older, and outright furious. “This is General Quentin Rigby,” the man growled, sounding as if his teeth were gritted. “The secretary of defense. What the hell just happened?”
“Captain Warren was discovered to be unfit for command,” Cohen said as clearly as he could muster. “XO Nathan and Lieutenant Davis are escorting him to the brig as we speak.”
“That is treason!” Rigby shouted into the phone. “Admiral Buchanan will—”
“I’m sorry, General, but I think you’ll find that the admiral will be similarly relieved of duty,” Cohen told him, “if he hasn’t already.”