Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

Logan did not really have access to those satellites, which were so deep within U.S. government security that they were well beyond even the reach of Gordon Gates. But the major did not have to know that, and Logan believed that by tossing out the satellite idea as bait, he had bought a few more minutes. The inference was that Logan had to be kept alive in order to obtain this help, thus bringing value to his life. They would keep his hands free if he had to work on the keyboard.

So when they walked through the door of the small house, it would be normal to have his hands raised slightly above his head, as if in surrender. He would grab the loaded AK-47 hidden above the door, spray the guards, and hope that Collins would be able to take down a few. Or they could at least force a standoff, with the soldiers still outside the house but with the little major inside as a hostage, with a rifle in his ear. Then Vic could deal on better terms. It is always better to negotiate from strength.

Then a second huge explosion flashed. The gunner on the Zeus had opened fire on the fleeing white truck, and the booby-trapped big gun blew to pieces when the bullets hit the C-4 explosives Kyle had stuffed down the barrels. Cases of ammunition then detonated around it with mighty stutters and new flames billowed up. Logan did not know what this one was, either, and the surprise was plain on his face. The little major turned again and stared at him with total disgust.

SOME DIFFICULTY? GERALD, we have quite a bit more than that,” Gordon Gates said after Buchanan briefed him. “You have let things go astray. I would have thought better of you.”

“It will be brought under control soon, Gordon,” Buchanan promised stiffly, feeling the back of his neck redden in embarrassment and anger. “I just wanted to keep you abreast of what was happening.” He did not like being insulted, and did not miss the careful wording from Gates that this was a problem created by Gerald Buchanan. They were in this together! Was Gates distancing himself and his company from the national security advisor?

Buchanan took a deep breath to keep his voice calm, as if they were talking about the weather in Aspen rather than creating a constitutional crisis. “I think it would be good if you and I and Senator Reed meet and discuss our options.”

Gordon Gates laughed, a cold sound that disturbed Buchanan’s false calm. “Out of the question. You tell me you have things under control, so I shall accept your statement as fact. When you resolve your little ‘problem,’ Gerald, then we will get together.”

Buchanan rocked back against his chair. “But, Gordon, I need your help!”

“Don’t be a stupid ass. You are putting thousands of your Junior G-Men all over this situation and there is no telling what they are going to do or uncover in their zest for carrying out your orders. If some eager beaver government cop stumbles onto the truth, then we will have a real problem. Isolate these people, Gerald, and take care of them. You’ve got Patriot Act IV, that Homeland Security Department, and every imaginable legal power you need. Damn, the attorney general would give you retroactive authority if you ask. You are above the law! How much more do you fucking need?”

“You won’t help?”

“You do not need to know what I will or will not do.” There was another long pause.

Buchanan could almost envision the lean face of Gordon Gates concentrating in thought. It was not the face of a businessman, but that of a killer.

Gates spoke. “You must convince the President to increase the threat level up to Red immediately. Make up some excuse tied to the Syrian situation or better yet, change the conditions of the entire argument. North Korea plans another nuclear test. Iran is gathering forces on the border of Iraq. Maybe a rogue Mexican Army unit plans to tear down part of the border fence. Use your imagination. Something international to make everyone look the other way and give us more cover. I give us no more than twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours?”

“Yes. If that sniper brings General Middleton out of Syria alive, this whole thing will blow up in our faces. Middleton must be stopped, as well as all four of the other people who know about your order. You must get to them. Understand this, Gerald, everything is at risk here. Everything!”

“I can do it. I already have the machinery moving,” Buchanan said.

Gates was thinking far ahead of him. “We’re almost out of time. Once you get the red alert in full force, and homeland protection is at its maximum, I will signal my Shark Teams to prepare Operation Premier with terrorist attacks on multiplex theaters in Houston, Kansas City, Atlanta, and San Diego. They will be in position for simultaneous strikes within two days. Then some schools will be hit during the following week, and the shopping malls. Every day there will be something new until this country finally wakes up and realizes the military and police services and the civilian leadership, as currently constructed, are unable to protect them. Sad, but true.”

“I see. Can we avoid significant casualties?”

Gates exhaled in frustration. “Don’t be thick, Gerald. It is only when we sustain major civilian losses that this country will finally turn in the direction it needs to go. It cannot move that way now because of that old piece of paper called the Constitution. When television sets across the land show horrific pictures of thousands of dead Americans-many more than 9/11-including a lot of kids, for hour after hour, day after day, you just make sure you have the Declaration of Martial Law ready, as well as your new draft constitution.”

“Very well.” Buchanan was sweating.

“Now buck up, Gerald, old boy. Do your job and you will be running the United States of America in a couple of weeks. The clock is ticking. I look forward to talking with you after you have sewed up these loose ends. Meanwhile, you give me every scrap of information you have on those people. Maybe there are some ways I can help after all.” He terminated the call.

Only then did Gordon Gates let his anger show. He threw a delicate bowl of blue glass made in Venice against a wall. It shattered, and he yelled aloud, “Buchanan, you goddam fuckup!” Buchanan didn’t have the balls or the smarts to take out those four people, because he had never lived in the dark world of spies and special operators. I have to clean up your shit! You are weak! Gates poured a stiff Scotch and took a deep drink as he stared out the window at the lake behind his home. Then he activated a special communications device on his desk and prepared to send encrypted messages to some of the Shark Teams. Some would independently be sent to hunt down the four people who had become threats.

He had come too far, planned too much, and spent too much money to let an incompetent bureaucrat like Buchanan screw things up. Operation Premier would go forward, and faceless terrorists would be blamed for the tragic attacks.

He knew the idea of staging false attacks was not original. The Pentagon had seriously considered the tactic back in the 1960s to whip up a frenzy for an invasion of Cuba-shooting down a moon rocket and an airliner, hitting some civilian targets, and killing important officials, blaming it all on Castro. But President Kennedy intervened and trashed those plans. Gates had studied the scheme in detail at the War College, and thought it might have merit in the modern world. This time, he would run it privately so no governmental leadership could block the attacks.

The United States would cry out for someone who could stop the fighting and erase the fear but still guarantee rights for a free people, within reason. Who better to step in and bring order out of chaos than a decorated war hero, a proven patriot, who was at the helm of the world’s largest private security company?