Peter Kirsanow - Second Strike

Garin gazed steadily at his tormentor’s face. The Butcher moved the needle a few millimeters closer, enough that Garin would notice the movement of the arm holding the implement. Garin blinked once slowly and clenched his jaws hard, resolved to suppress any scream, however involuntary, and keep it buried deep in his lungs. Don’t give the son of a bitch the satisfaction. Show him what Pop showed the monsters of the NKVD. Not just courage, defiance.

The Butcher slowly inserted the needle into Garin’s ear canal, being careful not to touch any portion of the skin and cartilage of its surrounding walls to heighten the trepidation. He manipulated the implement with the care and deftness of a neurosurgeon. The metal generated a ringing whine in Garin’s ear, so soft and ephemeral he was unsure if it was real or imaginary, but his mind fixated upon it defensively, a distraction from imminent agony.

Garin disciplined himself to continue staring at the Butcher’s face. His jaw was rigid but the remainder of his facial muscles revealed nothing to the Butcher, who concluded he would not prevail in a purely psychological battle, at least not this one. Garin was implacable. Severe physical pain was required.

So the Butcher inserted the tip of the long needle deeper into the auditory canal, slightly upward past the acoustic meatus and piercing the tympanic membrane, causing a shrieking burst of noise that shot through the auditory tube and was conveyed by the auditory nerve to Garin’s brain.

Garin couldn’t know whether he had successfully suppressed a scream. He lost consciousness when the needle traversed the middle ear and skirted just above the eustachian tube on its way to the cochlea.

MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 17, 10:30 A.M. EDT

Olivia was seated in the captain’s chair of the communications room in Dan Dwyer’s subbasement.

She had tried to reach Brandt several times, anxious to know what action the president would take. Brandt hadn’t picked up, which Olivia took as a sign that he was still in the Oval Office.

Between calls she ruminated over the satellite images. The mind, she knew, often resists making the logical progressions toward unpleasant conclusions, however obvious they may be. Although they denied official involvement, the Russians were on their best behavior after the EMP affair. It was implausible that they would be engaged in any form of questionable activity so soon after that affair. But Brandt had continually emphasized to her to always expect the unexpected from the Russians, and to anticipate the worst.

So she analyzed the images in her mind over and over. She considered the speed of the Russian movements. More importantly, she considered their trajectory. The Baltic movements were relatively unremarkable. They’d seen such movements in the past.

But the southward thrusts were different. Nothing about them suggested mere training maneuvers. They followed no previously observed pattern. They fit none of the myriad war-game models with which she was familiar. In short, they served none of the standard strategic imperatives Western powers had ascribed to either the Soviets or the Russians.

But the vectors were plain. The southward thrusts were headed toward Iran. Russian naval presence had increased markedly in the Persian Gulf. This, clearly, was about Iran. Iran, whose nuclear program had been obliterated by weeks of devastating Allied bombing runs. The logical progression led to the unpleasant conclusion that the Russians were coming to Iran’s assistance.

But why so late? There was little left of the nuclear program to salvage. The various enrichment facilities, missile sites, and nuclear plants had been all but destroyed. Iran’s nuclear capacity had been reduced to rubble.

Or had it?

Olivia heard the electronic locks on the communications room door slide open, and Dwyer entered the room.

“You need to be fed.”

“Not that hungry, Dan. But thanks.”

“Nonsense, young lady. You’re eating. I read somewhere that the brain uses up something like a gazillion watts of energy. That means short of hooking you up to a power plant, that big brain of yours needs about six thousand pounds of beef. We’ll force-feed you if necessary.”

“I’m anxious to talk to Jim.”

“I’m anxious to talk to Angelina Jolie. Both of us may be in for a wait.”

“What do you think the Russians are up to, Dan?”

“Same thing as you. Nothing good. Hope for the best, plan for the worst.”

“What’s the worst?”

“From a country with seven thousand nukes?”

“Realistically.”

“Taras Bor is involved, Olivia. You tell me.”

“Have you heard from Michael?”

“Not in a while.”

“Bor won’t stop trying to kill him, will he?”

“Is your concern personal or professional?”

“My concern is immediate. Things seem to be moving faster than we can keep up with. I’m concerned, Dan, that the endgame is approaching, that it will arrive before we have an inkling of what’s really going on.”

“I admit having the same concern,” Dwyer agreed. “But the good news, Olivia, is that your hero and mine, Mike Garin, Defender of the Free World and Guardian of the Realm, is chewing gum, kicking butt, and taking names out there.”

Olivia rolled her eyes.

“But seriously,” Dwyer said, turning sober, “he always wins. Every single time. Without fail. I’ve seen it. Even you’ve seen some of it. And that means right now, as we speak, this very moment, the bad guys are losing, and losing really, really bad.”

NORTHERN VIRGINIA,

AUGUST 17, 11:15 A.M. EDT

T here was a loud noise and a flash of light. Then he remembered a dull pain. Next came his older sister Katy’s voice, strong and demanding.

He opened his eyes in a hospital bed, monitors arranged about him. Katy was at the foot of the bed talking to a doctor who was holding a clipboard with papers attached. She had a serious look on her face, like all Garins. They noted that he was awake and came to his side. Katy stroked his hair. She had a sad smile. Garin remembered and knew why.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Good. Are you okay?”

Katy’s laugh was almost a cry. No matter what his condition, her little brother would always respond like that.

“Mom and Dad are dead,” Katy said. Direct, no preliminaries, no softness. The family way. Take care of business, grieve when time allowed.

Garin nodded. It came back in a rush. The family was returning from an awards banquet. Garin had been named an all-state running back. A drunk driver hit them head-on. Garin’s parents were killed instantly. Garin had been knocked unconscious. Katy had barely a scratch.

“Michael, I’m Dr. Lee.” Garin saw a man in his early sixties, tall and lean with a look of confidence. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Dr. Lee raised the clipboard and scanned the charts. He waited a few beats before continuing. “You have a concussion and some contusions. No broken bones. Because of the concussion, we’ll want to keep you under observation for twenty-four hours before discharging you.”

Dr. Lee glanced at Katy before continuing. “When you were brought in we did the typical preliminary scans. The radiologist caught something, so we did a few more scans and tests.”

Dr. Lee continued with a lengthy but not overly technical explanation. Something about valves and chambers. All that Garin remembered was the phrase “congenital heart defect.” Dr. Lee tried to be optimistic, but it was likely Garin would not see his fortieth birthday, maybe not even his thirty-fifth.