Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

THE WHITE HOUSE

JULY 17 2:18 P.M. EDT

“Mr. President, we should not commit to any irreversible course of action, not until we confirm the Russians’ and Iranians’ true intentions. And our missing operator is vital to such confirmation. We mustn’t act before we locate him.”

The president examined the faces of the core members of the National Security Council arrayed around the conference table in the Situation Room. Most registered anxiety, others disbelief, perhaps even fear.

Except for James Brandt. The national security advisor appeared calm, almost serene. But inside, he was rattled by the call he’d received only moments earlier.

“Elaborate, Jim.”

“Are you familiar, sir, with the phenomenon surrounding the event known as Starfish Prime?”

“Yes, vaguely.”

“The man I’m speaking of, the man we’ve assumed is on the run after committing numerous acts of unspeakable violence, possesses information that could thwart an event dwarfing Starfish Prime. We’ve got to find him, sir.”

The president stared hard at Brandt. “What’s the worst-case scenario if we didn’t?”

Brandt appeared to stare right back at the commander in chief. “Not to overstate matters, sir, but the immediate end of the United States as currently constituted.”

PUNJAB PROVINCE, PAKISTAN

JULY 11 4:16 P.M. PKT

There were thirty-five of them — twenty shooters and the rest labor — and they were within moments of acquiring a nuclear device.

Not just one nuke, but several. More than the West would ever, or could ever, expect. Enough to obliterate the entire population of their target and, if deployed shrewdly, to provide second-strike capability. Deterrence and insurance.

In less than two hundred feet they would enter the facility and would meet, at most, token resistance. There might be a brief firefight, but only for show, to fool the West.

They would load the devices on the flatcars they pushed before them. Then they would go to the extraction point, detonating explosives to cover their escape, making it look like the work of terrorists.

Less than two hundred more feet. Then victory and glory. They had trained for more than a year, rehearsed hundreds of times. They knew their assigned roles to the letter. They knew they would be celebrated. They knew they would be heroes.

What they did not know was that they would be martyrs, for less than a hundred feet behind them, death approached.

The tunnel ninety feet below the outskirts of Wah Cantonment was a serpentine affair, winding around hard rock formations for nearly eight hundred yards before coming to a stop beneath the nuclear weapons facility approximately two miles west of the Pakistan Ordnance Factories. From there, a laddered shaft led up to a concealed trapdoor in a seldom-used storage area in a remote part of the facility.

The tunnel wasn’t what Mike Garin had imagined during the briefing on the flight from Ramstein Air Base in Germany. It was wide and tall and brightly lit, almost like a miniature metropolitan subway tunnel. The floor was smooth and level and the walls were carved into the earth at precise ninety-degree angles to the floor. It was built deep enough to minimize, if not completely evade, detection by the nuclear facility’s vibration sensors or, for that matter, most any other monitoring device.

Not that such detection was likely. Nearly two hundred million US dollars had been paid to both corrupt officers and faithful confederates within and without the facility to ensure that no alarms would be triggered — or, if triggered, would not be reported.

Garin hated tunnels. Most operators did. Tunnels were telescoped kill boxes. No cover, no possibility of lateral movement. Therefore, no effective way to avoid incoming fire unless you were fortunate enough to be near one of the tunnel’s twists and turns. Then you might be able to duck behind an earthen bend to avoid a direct frontal hit. But even then, you were just as likely to be struck by bullets ricocheting off the tunnel’s walls.

Tunnels were death traps. No margin for error. Even tactical perfection provided little protection.

Nonetheless, Garin led his eight-member team swiftly and stealthily through the labyrinth, pausing before each turn to be sure no sentries were posted around the corner. Somewhere ahead, a force estimated to consist of at least two dozen highly trained, heavily armed men was using the tunnel to gain access to the facility.

If the intelligence reports were accurate, it was only about a hundred more yards before Garin and his team would reach the shaft leading up to the storage area. Accordingly, the odds of encountering the armed force grew with each step he and his men took. It was possible the force was already on its way back, having acquired the holy grail. If they had, and Garin’s mission was unsuccessful, the world would soon be facing a crisis unlike almost anything previously witnessed.

Instinctively slowing the pace, Garin signaled his team to stop as they approached another bend angling toward the right. He flattened himself against the right side of the tunnel wall and slowly slid forward until he was able to peek quickly around the curve. Two sentries, standing shoulder to shoulder, alert, carrying KL-7.62s, and glancing expectantly down the tunnel in the direction of the facility.

Garin signaled his findings to the team, lowered his HK416, and after contemplating whether to leave it slung across his torso, lowered it gently to the ground. He withdrew his tactical knife with his right hand, braced for a beat, and then burst around the bend toward the sentry on the left. Garin jammed the knife deep into the right side of the man’s neck, ripping its serrated blade across his throat and tearing through skin, muscle, cartilage, and veins as he severed the man’s trachea.

The other sentry’s brain hadn’t yet begun processing the blur of carnage before Garin pivoted a full 180 degrees to his right and plunged the blade into the base of the second man’s throat, just above his sternum. A jet of blood spurted from the cavity as Garin retracted the knife. Both sentries collapsed to the ground almost simultaneously, dead.

Elapsed time: a tick under two seconds. Speed, Garin maintained, kills.

He wiped his blade on the second sentry’s trousers before sheathing his knife and shouldering his rifle again. He listened for any sounds of movement ahead, then motioned his team to advance.

Stepping lightly over the two corpses, the team moved cautiously and silently, the engagement with the sentries raising expectations of an imminent encounter with the larger force. As they rounded the bend, the tunnel straightened for a full thirty yards before disappearing around another right turn.

Garin sped up the pace. They were exposed while in the straightaway. Shooters shielded behind the bend ahead could cut them down with impunity. An underground slaughterhouse.

Within seconds they approached the break of the next turn. Garin signaled another halt and again went flush against the right wall, his team doing the same, single file, John Gates and Gene Tanski immediately behind him. Garin paused for a moment, alert for any sounds, any vibrations, any whisper of air that might betray human presence.