“This one man got past all the FSB at the airport, and Pavel and his worthless crew,” said Mikhailovich, glancing at Ivanov in the rearview mirror. “Still…” he mused, “you may be right. How much trouble could one man cause us, yeah?”
“Exactly,” Ivanov said, a smile evident in his voice. “I suggest we focus on the American Ambassador. He is the key here—if nothing else, we can use him for bait and let this…cowboy come to us.”
“Braaten,” Mikhailovich muttered, rubbing his chin as he watched a woman cross the street a block away. “His name is Cooper Braaten.”
“Cooper,” said Ivanov, his voice dripping disdain. “A peasant name.”
“Have you read the file?” asked Petroval. “He would not be alone if he weren’t any good.”
“Psh,” Ivanov snickered. “You’ve been watching too many spy movies, Sasha. Send your boys out, wait for him to come to us. Catch him, kill him,” he said, dusting his hand of imaginary dirt. “Easy as eating sharlotka.”
“Perhaps,” Mikhailovich muttered. He thought back to Voroshilov’s warning to not underestimate Braaten and doubted the American would be as simple to handle as an apple cake, but…
“If we use the ambassador as bait, it will give me time to check my sources,” Petroval said. “We can look into every hotel in the city and see if someone matches the description…”
“You are too cautious by far, my friend,” Ivanov began.
“I am not your friend,” rumbled Petroval. He turned to the front seat. “I know a small crew—they’re not the best, but they are…expendable.”
Mikhailovich raised a hand in a careless wave of dismissal and Petroval fell silent. “Do it.” He turned to face the rear seat. “But I don’t like this. The sooner he’s found the better—in the meantime,” he said, looking at Ivanov, “contact your man at the FSB—I want the ambassador detained.”
Ivanov blinked. “What, arrest the US ambassador?”
“No,” said Mikhailovich, facing front again. “I’ve already had Igor Voroshilov call off his men. But I want this Marquadt slowed down and his escorts distracted. While the FSB makes a mess of things, we slip in and take him. And his wife.”
Ivanov grimaced. “It won’t be easy.”
“Kidnappings rarely are, my friend. But the Americans will cooperate. They’re soft political appointees. Why wouldn’t they just go along for the ride? Their government will pay anything to get them back.” Mikhailovich licked his lips. “Anything.”
Ivanov snorted. He glanced at Petroval, as if looking for support. “I have contacts with the American State Department, but they’re not that powerful.”
Mikhailovich grinned. “They’ll listen. Trust me.”
Ivanov had the good sense to nod and accept the notion as truth. “It will be a pleasure, then.”
Mikhailovich turned and pointed at his probational support spy. “No one touches the wife, understand? Bring her to me, Sasha.”
Petroval nodded, the smile still plastered on his face. “Khorosho.”
“Excellent. Get going.” Mikhailovich waved again over his shoulder. Ivanov and Petroval opened their doors and exited, walking away from the car in opposite directions. Mikhailovich drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Where are you, Mr. Braaten?” he mumbled, as traffic flowed around his parked car.
4
The Eve of Battle
Washington, D.C.
The White House
President Orren Harris gripped the cold iron railing on the White House balcony. He wondered, staring across the open expanse of the South Lawn, if Roosevelt ever felt so useless on the eve of World War II. The world was conspiring against America, and long-time allies seemed content to watch and wait while aggressors and invaders consolidated power and pushed for more.
It all led to one conclusion. War.
Lantern lights, torches, and makeshift bonfires sparkled like stars across the green expanse between the White House and the Washington Monument. Thousands of protesters had gathered to scream and shout and chant, voicing their opinions on the evils of another war. An equal number had gathered to demand swift action and decisive punishment for the North Koreans after the recent invasion.
A smaller number screamed for all they were worth, chanting and beating drums, attempting to call attention to the fact that the country still hadn't recovered from the ravages of the bioweapon attack, and in their opinion, there was more than enough suffering already. Sprinkled in among all the various factions were the anarchists, the communists, the religious zealots, and anyone disgruntled enough to seek their moment in the limelight—they all descended upon the White House like a plague of noisy, smelly, messy locusts. The garbage cleanup afterward would cost millions. It always did.
President Harris shook his head at the futility of it all. He knew there was even a small group out there that was pissed he had moved the capital to Denver. He wasn't even at the White House to work; he had stopped by to oversee the final days of the transition. It taken six months to get the machinery of change moving, but the federal government was finally shifting from the East Coast to a more central location.
There were, even in his own cabinet, some who wanted the president to return to Washington and claim the rightful seat of power, but he had decided. The recent quasi-civil war—still being fought in isolated pockets between overheated citizens and neighbors—had divided the nation too much. He believed the country needed a fresh start. They would get that fresh start when the bioweapon vaccine made its rounds through the country and put an end to the flu once and for all. He would make the announcement from the steps of the new White House.
How many other diseases could we stop if we still had that kid from Montana? Or was it Wyoming? He shook his head at the loss. Chad Huntley, The Source, the man with the incredible immune system. They’d had him at the Underground, used his blood to generate the vaccine, and saved untold millions already. And then, after a Council attack, he’d consented to ship Huntley off to a remote facility out west for safekeeping. And the boy had vanished. They still hadn’t even found the damn helicopter he’d been in…
He gripped the railing tighter, feeling the cold leech into his tired hands, soothing the frustration that made his body hum with tension. Almost a sixth of the country was still under direct control of the North Koreans. He had to solve that problem first, and solve it soon. The rest of the world was still fighting the bioweapon flu, but the free, government subsidized treatment courses would be available globally soon enough. He had to save America first.
The president loosened the tie about his neck. It'd been a long day. The disastrous conclusion to the UN summit in Edinburgh—designed to forestall or seek an alternative resolution to the conflict with North Korea—had left international affairs frazzled on both sides of the Atlantic. He'd had his Secretary of State traveling to half a dozen countries in Europe, personally meeting with leaders to convince them to join the American cause.
Harris himself had been on the phone the entire day, his voice raw as a result. He had convinced a few nations—Germany, France, and Austria—to join with America, or at least stay neutral. Others, like China and Spain would give no ground whatsoever. They were firmly against any further escalation of the conflict. They’d vowed to do anything in their power to maintain the status quo in eastern Asia.
The door behind him opened with a soft click and his Chief of Staff, Vale Klaussman, appeared on the balcony. "Mr. President, they're ready."
Harris sighed. “I’ll be there in a minute."
"Can you at least put on a coat, sir? The temperature’s dropping pretty quick, and I’d hate to see you get sick—right when the nation needs you the most."
The president turned and looked at his exhausted chief of staff. "Jesus, Vale, you look worse than I feel."
His grizzled chief of staff snorted. "You haven't looked in the mirror lately, have you?"
Just talking with Vale, President Harris felt the
tension ease from his shoulders. There was at least one bright spot in the mess swirling around America and her allies: they were making tremendous progress against the Council's remaining assets. From Europe to Asia, from New Zealand to Canada—and all points in between—America and her allies marched across the globe rounding up—and terminating with extreme prejudice—the last vestiges of the Council's twisted operations.
The bioweapon attack that spiraled out of control and infected the entire planet looked more each day like the Council’s swansong.
The president took a deep, cleansing breath of cold air. The linchpin to it all had been the capture of Jayne Renolds. Despite the failure of the summit in Edinburgh, the president couldn't help but smile, thinking how her capture had capped off the entire affair. There were still the reports of zombies—of all things—and that strange gas attack that marred the opening stages of the conference, and the death toll likely wouldn't be known for weeks…
The president rapped his knuckles on the iron railing. But by God, we got the bitch.
He frowned, glaring at the protestor camps in the distance. And then they'd received word that her plane had crashed over Ireland. A garbled message from the pilot concerning the prisoner had been received, and then all telemetry data from the plane simply stopped.
The president turned and followed Klaussman back inside the White House, closing his eyes against the blast of warmth that shrouded him as he stepped through the open door. It wouldn't be nearly so warm or dry for the Rangers who’d been dispatched to London to retrieve Senator Tecumseh—now re-tasked to investigate and secure the crash site in Ireland…
Giving into the rigors of the day, the president finally dispatched with all formality and ripped off his tie, handing it to a servant who appeared out of nowhere, holding a silver tray with a bourbon on the rocks. Offering his thanks, the president accepted the drink, and followed Klaussman into the office adjacent his living quarters.
Inside the denuded office—most of the residential relics, decorations, and furniture had already been removed to Denver—he found a hastily assembled crew of technicians and Admiral Bennett, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The admiral stood, but the president waved him back to his seat. “Are we all set for this, Roger?" He stepped over to his seat opposite a large flatscreen TV on the desk, carefully navigating the wires and cables that secured the transmission from the other side of the Atlantic.
The technician, a mousy woman with large glasses, tapped away on a keyboard and the screen came to life, depicting the helmet cam of a soldier almost 4,000 miles away. The soldier’s name was printed in white letters at the bottom right corner of the screen: Alston, Derek J., Major, USA.
The president grunted and took a sip of his bourbon. "Alston…why does that name sound familiar to me?"
Klaussman inclined his head slightly, then answered. "That's because he's Dr. Brenda Alston's brother—she was the one working with Dr. Boatner on the first vaccine, back at the Underground.”
“She died in the attack, right before they crafted the vaccine, right?"
Klaussman nodded. “I looked at his file. Their whole family was wiped out in the Pandemic. He’s the last one left now.”
"Damn."
Before anyone could speak further, captain Alston's voice boomed from the television. "Command, Broadsword Actual. You getting a good signal?"
A muffled voice replied, "Roger that, Actual, we're reading you five by five.”
The president watched as the image bounced up and down with every step as Alston led his Rangers across vivid green, knee-high grass to the east, toward the sunrise. He checked his watch and added five hours. Local sunrise would be shedding light on the crash site within moments.
Alston angled his men toward a hill that overlooked the Irish Sea. A cloud of smoke obscured the water, but every now and then as Alston walked, it parted, like curtains drawn back from a window, to reveal sparkling waters beyond. In moments, the soldiers had crested the hill and looked down a gentle slope toward the shoreline, and the wreckage strewn below. Alston whistled as he looked down the hill.
"All right, Hicks, you take your take your squad north. I want everything cordoned off. What’s with the flashing lights over there?" Alston asked, his gloved hand suddenly appearing on screen and pointing in the distance.
"Looks like locals, sir," another voice replied.
“All right then,” Alston replied. “Get your asses over there and make sure they don't fuck up my crash site."
“Hooah,” said the disembodied voice. "Squads one and two! You heard the man, move your asses! Double-time!"
Alston turned, the world lurching sickeningly to the right. “Tex, I want squads three and four spread out to the south. The debris field heads off that way."
"Roger that,” said a man just off screen.
Alston shouted after the soldiers departing to the south. "And see if you can do something about that fucking engine! That jet fuel’s about ready to set the goddamn hill on fire!”
“Can you put jet fuel fire out with sand?” a new voice asked off camera.
“I don’t know,” Alston mused. “But it’ll keep Hicks occupied. We got too many men for this chicken shit detail. Jesus, what the hell are we doing here, anyway?”
“Training for civilian jobs with the NTSB?”
Alston laughed and surveyed the debris field. Bits of charred metal, seat cushions, and a chunk of the tail fin—sticking unseemly from the hill—painted a clear enough picture to the president that the plane had buried itself in the soft ground along the seashore at a steep angle—at incredible speed. Chewed up earth marred the emerald green grasses as far as the camera could see.
"Command, you seeing this?" asked Alston.
"Roger that, Actual. We need a positive ID on the bodies. Be advised you’re on VOX."
“Shit—of course I am,” muttered Alston. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, Actual. Just get that ID.”
“Roger that.” Alston shook his head, muttering, but started down the grassy slope just the same, stepping over clumps of raw dirt and smoking metal. “Command, I don't know if the positive ID’s gonna be possible. I don't see much of anything to ID, except bits of fuselage and seat cushions.”
"Do what you have to do, Actual—we need an ID on those bodies."
“Hooah,” Major Alston replied, the single word conveying a mouthful of despair at the prospects of the successful completion of his mission.
"I don't know sir, I think anybody on that plane was turned into hamburger," muttered the second voice off-camera.
“Stow that shit, Jorvah," Alston barked. Louder, he said: “I want everybody to fan out, arms-length apart! We’re gonna comb the beach—grid and check. Slow steps, people, and hold the line. We start here and work our way down to the water. Hooah?”
“Hooah!” a handful of voices cried in the distance.
"Sir, what happens if we get to the water and can't find anything?" a new, higher voice asked off to the left.
Alston turned, the camera focusing on the angular face of a young soldier. "Then I guess we’re going for a swim," he replied. The soldier grinned, then spread his arms to space himself between his comrades, looked down, and carefully stepped forward.
The president sat there for another hour, riveted.
“Mr. President, it looks like it’s going to be a long night,” Admiral Bennet offered. “There’s not much you can do from here.”
President Harris didn’t take his eyes off the smokey hillside and the burning, twisted wreckage. He couldn’t stop looking at the twinkling blue lights in the distance that appeared whenever Alston moved his head just right.
“What are you saying, Roger?”
“Admiral Bennett is suggesting you get some sleep, sir,” Klaussman replied.
“Anybody got anything?” Alston yelled. A chorus of negatives replied once more, voices echoed by distance as the remaining Rangers worked their wa
y closer in to the wreckage.
“Get some sleep, sir, we’ll wake you if they find something,” insisted Bennett.
Harris turned to the concerned face of his top military commander. “I need to see this, Roger. That woman executed Vice President Barron. I…”
Bennett stiffened. “Yessir.” The matter was dropped.
The president settled back in his seat and sipped his drink. He needed to see the body. They’d come so close to destroying the Council, they only needed proof of Renolds’ death to put the last nail in the coffin of the medieval secret society that had nearly wiped out mankind.
5
Overwatch
Near Dublin, Ireland
Danika Helström lay on her stomach in the cool, knee-high Irish grass and, carefully, pulled the binoculars to her eyes. They were cheap opera glasses, really, but she was more than close enough to see all the details she needed.
She wouldn’t be able to hold this position long anyway—the surgery to repair knife wound Jayne had bestowed upon her in Edinburgh was only half-healed. That in itself she found particularly impressive, considering her accelerated healing ability—Jayne had stabbed her deep. Any other woman would be dead by now.
The stitches strained against her tolerance for reconnaissance. She wanted to take action, not spy on the Americans.
Below her, combing the wreckage-strewn beach, she watched the American soldiers picking through bits of smoking, charred debris. Almost half of them had spread out in a massive, two man deep line and were inching forward down the hill opposite her position. Every now and then one man would call out to another, and someone would run over, pick up a piece of debris, and bag it, noting details on the plastic bag.
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