Barry Lando - Deep Strike

Moscow rules was shorthand for precautions drilled into all field agents during their training: Assume nothing. Never go against your gut. Everyone is potentially under opposition control. Don’t look back, you’re never completely alone. Go with the flow, blend in. Vary your pattern and stay within your cover. Lull them into a sense of complacency. Don’t harass the opposition. Pick the time and place for action. Keep your options open. And Steve’s favorite: Technology will always let you down.

Difficult to believe, thought Steve, that he would ever feel obliged to use such rules in America. But already his country was no longer America. On the way to the park, he changed taxis three times, always alert to the patterns of traffic and faces. He walked the last mile on foot, wearing his backpack. Twice along the park paths, he reversed his route. He finally met the three other agents at a wooden picnic table in a grove of hemlocks, shielded from anyone casually passing by.

“If this is going to become a habit,” said Charlie, “we should at least bring hot dogs so it looks for real.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” said Steve. He undid his backpack and brought out three pizza boxes, French fries, napkins, plastic utensils, and beers. He popped open a Bud . The agents passed around the food and began to eat.

“First order of business,” said Steve, “from what you’ve each told me, whoever placed bugs in my home, did the same with both of you.”

“One in each room,” said Charlie, “even the bathroom.”

“Same with me. My partner’s also damn mad,” said Sarah, sipping her beer. “And I can’t even tell her why it’s happened. Thank goodness I found it first and I told her when we were out of range.”

“The bastards,” said Charlie, turning to Steve. “Okay, we’re riled, but what can we do?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” said Steve. As they continued eating, he told them about the conversation the day before with Senator Gurd. “Bottom line: The senator might be able to get his honorable colleagues to move against Stokes, but only if we come up with something that will blow Stokes right out of the water. Even then, he said it’s not a sure thing.” He looked at the two others, “So that’s the challenge.”

“Not enough,” said Sarah cutting the last pizza. “You called us here for some reason, for more than just that.”

They were both now staring at Steve just as they had after Brian Hunt’s tirade at the bar in Alexandria. I refused to step forward back then, thought Steve. I failed them, failed Brian.

He rose and looked at the two officers, “You know the other night when you were pushing me on why I felt so strongly about taking on Stokes? I’ve been thinking a lot more about it.”

“And?” prompted Charlie

“Well, I don’t know how it was for you, but when I joined the agency, it was the end of the cold war, but there was still a sense of evil and good in the world, and no question which side was the good. It was us. At least in my mind.”

“Not in mine,” said Charlie. “Not any longer.”

“Right. Things have changed. The differences are no longer clear-cut. Who’s the evil? These days we’re told Isis? Radical Islam? What about our invasion of Iraq? Our endless war with Afghanistan? Our drones? Everything is hazy now, muddy.

“But as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing hazy about Stokes,” Steve continued. “The guy is evil incarnate; a danger to the U.S. and a danger to the world.

“I was looking at Brian’s two kids the other day, while we were burying him, thinking what could happen to them with Stokes as president. Brian must have thought about that too. Their entire future’s at risk. Forget about irreversible climate change. Stokes doesn’t give a shit about that! He’d turn this back into the planet of the apes!

“The son of a bitch also has the power to start a nuclear war on his own. What would have happened if it had not been JFK but Stokes calling the shots during the Cuban missile crisis?”

“The end of our so-called civilized world,” said Sarah.

Steve’s fervor mounted, “That’s apart from the murder of Brian and all the other horrors that Stokes and his people are capable of. So I say enough. I’m asking you to join me. We go for it; take on Stokes and defeat the bastard. I’m willing to lead.”

“I’m in,” said Charlie.

“Me too,” said Sarah.

She paused. “What do we call ourselves?”

“How about ‘True Grit?’” Charlie replied.

“That was a lousy film,” said Steve.

“How about ‘Deep Strike?’” asked Sarah.

“Sounds like a Tom Cruise movie,” said Charlie.

“So what? It’s very dramatic, and it’s true. Everyone’s talking about the Deep State. Well, this is like the Deep State strikes back,” said Sarah.

“I’ll buy it,” said Steve.

Deep Strike it was.

There was no way Deep Strike could take on President Walter Stokes without an ample, independent bankroll. It was that quest that brought Steve to the gated community in Palm Desert known as Big Horn. It was the penultimate reserve of the rich with 600 magnificent homes, several of which had already been featured in Architectural Digest . Sprawled across the foothills of the San Jacinto Mountains east of Los Angeles, the development boasted two undulating championship golf courses, restaurants, spas, swimming pools, and gyms. Armed guards restricted entry to members or friends of members. Only residents could play the golf courses, and only in exchange for an initiation fee of $100,000 and $18,000 a year after that. The five-star restaurants with their European and Japanese chefs were also restricted to owners and guests.

The houses were vast, rambling affairs of steel and titanium, concrete and glass, the only limit being the creativity of the architects and the panache of the landscapers.

Steve Penn had been invited to the most lavish mansion of them all: an $80 million, twenty-five-room spread, which had just won an award from the American Institute of Architects. It was just one of several residences around the globe belonging to Jake Pearlstein, ranked number eight on Forbes’s list of American billionaires. He’d made his fortune first in real estate, and then multiplied it a hundred times over via angel investments in PayPal, Facebook, Uber, and Snapchat. En route, he earned the enmity of most of his wealthy neighbors by his ostentatious backing of liberal causes. Ironically, it was Republican Senator Bill Gurd who put Steve in touch with the billionaire.

“Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” said the senator. “It would destroy both me and Jake if it got out that we’ve anything to do with each other.”

A massive butler with close-cropped blond hair, black t-shirt, white chinos, and sneakers answered the front door. His t-shirt was monogrammed with a discreet “P.” There was no attempt to hide the bulge of a machine pistol under his left arm.

“Sir,” he said, “If you have a weapon, mobile phone, recorder, or camera, would you please leave them here with me?” He spoke with a slight Balkan accent, probably Serbian.

“Here’s all I’ve got.” Steve handed over his iPhone.

“Is it all right if I pat you down?”

“Be my guest,” Steve raised his arms while the butler’s hands moved expertly over his torso and slid down and up his legs to his crotch.

“Now, please follow me, sir.” They walked down a marble hallway to a vast, softly lit living room hung with American masterpieces that could have graced the Museum of Modern Art in New York. The sliding windows of the living room opened to a flagstone terrace equipped with wet bar, barbecue pit, a row of lounge chairs, and a fifty-meter pool in which Jake Pearlstein was stroking through his morning swim. Beyond the pool and across the rambling cactus gardens were the cavernous sand traps and meticulously groomed fairways of one of the Big Horn golf courses.