Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

“There’s been a rather unusual pattern of movement of Russian troops and matériel.”

“Baltics?”

“Yes, but not just the Baltics, Professor. There’s been movement of Russian troops southward on either side of the Caspian. Russian naval presence also has increased in the Persian Gulf.”

“When did this happen?”

“I can’t say precisely. Very recently,” Olivia stressed. “But there’s more, Professor. Taras Bor likely is in Washington. Right now.”

The silence from the other end gave Olivia hope that Brandt now might be of the same mind.

“Do we know definitively that Bor’s in Washington? Has he been identified?”

“Not definitively.”

“No witness IDs? No photos?”

“No. But in addition to the signature shootings in Georgia, there have been other odd occurrences. DGT’s analysts have fed a ton of data into their computers. Police and fire reports; vectors. Admittedly, they’re operating from the premise that it’s Bor, but they conclude he’s most likely in Washington. I’m not sure we can afford not to operate from the same premise.”

“I think it’s time to brief the president, Olivia,” Brandt said to Olivia’s relief. “There are a lot of moving parts. The more moving parts, the more likely the Russians are up to no good.”

“Since you’re not feeling well, would you like me to brief him in your stead?”

Brandt laughed. “I’m impressed, Olivia. A bold offer from my painfully shy and retiring aide. But I fear I might end up like Wally Pipp. Seriously, I appreciate your consideration, but I think I can manage.”

“There’s another matter you may wish to take up with the president, Professor.”

“What might that be?”

“We’ve had a significant void in our national security apparatus since the assassination of the Omega team. We need to address that void.”

“Barely a month ago we didn’t even know of Omega’s existence. No one did. Especially our adversaries, so we thought,” Brandt said. “So first things first. Let’s meet in my office so you can brief me on everything on which I need to brief the president. Then, at the appropriate time, you and I can discuss Omega.”

“Professor, we didn’t know about Omega because, thankfully, they did their jobs. Based on what we’ve seen since we’ve come into office, it’s clear Omega was, and remains, essential to our national security. Especially in the present environment.”

“Essential, yes. But not indispensable,” Brandt countered. “Delta and SEAL Team Six can fill the void for now.”

“Professor, I spoke with Mike Garin…”

“And what did our intrepid hero have to say?”

“Professor, you have to acknowledge he knows what he’s doing and what he’s talking about,” Olivia prefaced.

“That I do,” Brandt acknowledged.

“He’s adamant that Omega needs to be reconstituted immediately. He insists America is naked in the present threat environment, especially considering the possibility that Bor is back in the country. A team tried to kill Garin just a short time ago. Remember: The same thing occurred only a few weeks ago—just before he averted Armageddon. His judgment on these matters should be taken with the utmost seriousness.”

“Point taken. But how does Garin propose reconstituting Omega with Senator McCoy’s likely opposition? And even if McCoy approved, it would take months to stand up.”

“He just needs sanction and resources.”

“Is that all?” Brandt said with a hint of sarcasm.

“He needs authority from the president and access to intelligence resources.”

“What about operators, support personnel?”

“He says he’ll get former tier-one operators. DGT can provide some logistical support. The rest, mainly intelligence, would be provided by CIA, NSA—and others. And that’s only if needed. The main thing he needs is not to be arrested and prosecuted for doing things civilians aren’t supposed to do.”

“That’s still a pretty heavy lift, Olivia.”

“An Omega team is necessary, Professor. You know that, as does President Marshall. Either an Omega team attached to JSOC, Title 50 of the CIA, or an Omega team of limited sanction.”

“The president does like having Omega,” Brandt conceded. “And, although he’d never admit it, during the EMP crisis he was absolutely fascinated by Garin—kept asking questions about him.”

“Then maybe it’s not such a heavy lift.”

“Make no mistake,” Brandt emphasized. “I think the president would favor the immediate re-creation of an Omega team. But he didn’t become president by being a political idiot. If he does this without at least some congressional input, McCoy and everyone on his side of the aisle will go nuclear—no pun intended. And so will their media allies. It’s their opportunity to redirect attention from the acute embarrassment—not to mention damage—caused by counsel for Senate Intelligence working with the Russians. The headlines are all too predictable: ‘President Bypasses Congress, Authorizes Secret Kill Teams.’”

“He’s the commander in chief. This is about the best interests of the country. Not about his best political interests. He can reconfigure military units as he deems fit.”

“That’s the point, Olivia. Military units in the Defense Department, within the government. Not nongovernmental operations.”

“Then make them part of the government,” Olivia retorted. “Whatever works, whatever he’s comfortable with. But Omega needs to be reestablished. Now.”

“Proximity to Michael Garin seems to have had an effect on you, Olivia. Since the EMP crisis you’ve gone from meek postdoc to bold national security hawk. Stanford meets Coronado.” Brandt paused. “All right. I’ll stress immediate authorization of Omega with the president,” Brandt said. “I’ll make sure he knows it was your idea so he doesn’t blame me when it inevitably becomes a political nightmare.”

DALE CITY, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 16, 11:49 A.M. EDT

This time Garin’s excursion to his apartment was not to drop bread crumbs but to stay awake. Primarily. Scrubbing off the last twenty-four hours in the shower and putting on some fresh clothes would help. So would another cup of coffee—then, back to the fray.

The apartment was substantially as he’d left it—sans a couple of dead Quds Force assassins. And the carpet had been cleaned.

The apartment was utilitarian. A mattress lay on the floor of the living room, which merged into a tiny kitchenette. There was a small bathroom and an even smaller walk-in closet. Other than the mattress, the only furnishing in the unit was a folding metal chair Garin pulled next to the counter to eat his meals. “Spartan” would be a wildly lavish description of the unit.

Garin turned on the coffeemaker before getting into the shower and doing his best to return to resembling a member of the human race. Sheets of hot, almost scalding water, followed by cold. He toweled off briskly, taking inventory of the nicks and bruises accumulated from the Crucible and the incident in the airport parking garage in Cleveland. Minor and unconcerning.

He looked more closely in the mirror. His eyes were somewhat bloodshot, though not as crimson as he’d seen them numerous times before. For some, gazing in the mirror soon after being responsible for the deaths of several human beings, even in self-defense, was a time for introspection. It had never been so for Garin. As far as he was concerned, conflict and soul-searching were trite literary and cinematic conventions. The killings were necessary, justified. He would kill more soon. If he didn’t, innocents would perish. Simple equation. At some point, he’d pray the Rosary. But his conscience carried no burdens.