Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

Chernin felt no ill effects from the previous evening’s cigars and vodka. In fact, despite having consumed nearly twice as much vodka as Mansur, Chernin was still going strong, hinting at the importance of his work without revealing any details, when the latter had begun drifting off to sleep.

Chernin had spent most of the morning reviewing weekly reports. He took satisfaction in the knowledge that this could very well be the last series of weekly performance reports he would need to review. The time was approaching for him to go home. After a series of tests, the project would be certified at the local level. The Iranians were so anxious to get under way that they would likely certify anything, but Chernin’s superiors in Moscow would make the final assessment and their standards were far more exacting.

Chernin’s standards were just as high and he was confident that all systems would pass inspection. Then, if all was in order, the project would be prepared for execution in a little more than three days. It would be, as the Americans liked to say, a game changer.

SPENCER, NEW YORK

JULY 15 5:35 A.M. EDT

Garin scratched himself awake sometime after five A.M. He was covered with fewer insect bites than he had expected, but the one on the back of his neck itched worse than any he had gotten during a miserable month he’d once spent in the Colombian jungle.

The eastern sky was a light yellow and the house and barn were readily visible. They appeared freshly painted and well maintained. A rear door was open — having been kicked in during last night’s raid. It was the lone sign of what had occurred hours before.

Clearly, Garin needed to find somewhere else from which to operate. He had plenty of cash and at least one false ID that no one in the government knew about, so theoretically, he could rent a hotel room and work from there.

But the events of the last forty-eight hours, especially those of last night, had spooked him. It seemed wherever he went, with the exception of the bunker, his adversaries followed. Or, as in the case of both his apartment and his sister’s house, they preceded him. They seemed to be everywhere. Pop was right: If someone can see you, your enemies can, and will, find you.

Garin decided it was best to return to the Washington, D.C., area. After all, he had gone to Ohio only to secure his sister’s family, and he had come here only to operate freely, with minimal chance of detection. He would find out in a few minutes whether he had accomplished the first goal. Last night proved that he wouldn’t accomplish the second. At least in Washington, he had a potential resource that might produce some answers. So far, he had none.

Garin grabbed his rifle and was about to get up when, on the grassy field approximately one hundred yards in front of him, the ground began to move. He remained still as the ground took the shape of a man slightly taller than Garin, with a stocky, muscular build, holding an M110 sniper rifle. The sniper wore a ghillie suit that had allowed him to blend in with the foliage. Had the sniper not moved first, Garin would have never detected his presence. Had Garin moved first, he would most certainly be dead right now. The raiders had left the sniper behind as a fail-safe. Garin had missed him completely last night, and that made the sniper very good.

The sniper was facing north, his back to Garin. It appeared as if he was speaking into a communication device. After placing the device in an unseen pocket, he stretched, arched his back, and removed his balaclava. He appeared to be adjusting something on his rifle. Garin, a paranoid about scope glare, flipped the antireflective cover on the scope of his rifle to prevent any reflected light from giving away his position. Only a few moments later, he could hear the distinctive sound of an approaching Little Bird over the horizon. The craft appeared, hugging the treetops of the woods north of the farmhouse. Garin calculated it must have been stationed only a few miles away. It banked east and then swept over the cornfield before coming to rest midway between Garin and the sniper.

As the sniper turned to board the craft, Garin’s stomach tightened. Although he was nearly the length of a football field away, Garin was fairly certain that he was looking at the face of one of the deadliest snipers in the world.

His name was Congo Knox. He was unforgiving. And he was Delta Force.

NORTHEAST OHIO

JULY 15 5:59 A.M. EDT

Joe Burns sat at the table next to the stairs leading from the bunker to the cabin, the Benelli Nova Pump next to him. He had turned on the cell phone a few minutes early in anticipation of Garin’s call. Joe wanted to be sure not to miss it.

Katy and the kids were asleep in the bedroom, Nicholas in a sleeping bag on the floor and the rest sprawled in various directions across the mattress. Joe had gotten little sleep during the night. His family had already gone to bed when he thought he heard muted noises coming from aboveground. He had remained absolutely still for a long period of time, hoping to be able to discern the source of the sound, but was unable to do so. There seemed to be a couple of faint thumps and a barely noticeable vibration. He had heard no voices, but the noise definitely didn’t originate from anywhere within the bunker. He had been sitting next to the stairs ever since.

The cell began to vibrate. He picked it up immediately and simply said, “Mike.”

“Sergeant Major, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.” The evident relief in Garin’s voice telegraphed that something had happened.

“Mike, what’s the problem? You sound on edge. Not like you.”

“A little matter like having the entire law enforcement apparatus of the United States gunning for you can have that effect.” Garin caught himself. “Joe, sorry, I don’t mean to be sarcastic. I was worried someone might’ve found you.”

The reception in the bunker was poor, but Garin had Joe’s complete attention. “What happened?”

“I won’t go into details. We have to keep the call short. But I have reason to think the military may be somehow involved in looking for me.”

“They can’t, Mike,” Joe said unequivocally. “ Posse comitatus. ”

“I know. But some people arrived at the farm last night and they sure didn’t look or move like local law enforcement.” Garin paused. “No matter. I’ll handle it. I was just concerned that they found me by getting to you.”

A pause. “I heard noises coming from outside last night.”

The edge returned to Garin’s voice. “What time, where did it come from, and what did it sound like?”

“Around midnight from somewhere outside. I can’t be certain where. I don’t think it was from inside the cabin. It’s hard to describe the sound — not voices. Barely audible.”

“Did you go outside at any time last night?”

“Yeah, but we followed your instructions and waited until dusk. We were only out for ten or fifteen minutes and stayed within one hundred feet of the cabin.”

“Don’t go outside again. I seriously doubt anyone was looking for you,” Garin said unconvincingly. “But let’s not risk it. You’re safe in the bunker. It’s made out of steel and concrete. Nobody can get in. Remember to keep the hatch locked. If you hear voices or noises again, close the air vent until it goes away.”

Joe understood without the need for elaboration. Gas. “Will do,” Joe said.

“I’m getting off now. I’ll call you again tomorrow. On second thought, I’m not going to call you anymore. No sense giving them a signal. You call me if there’s an emergency. Now, turn off the phone and take out the battery.”