Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

ROSSLYN, VIRGINIA

1108 HOURS

TWO DAYS LATER

He awoke in a stupor. Brain foggy, memory shot, limbs in pain. Only one dream, obvious. Handsome Prince tries to save the world but forgets to save the Beautiful Princess. Part of Prince, fool of fools, played by Bob Lee Swagger. Princess played by Susan Okada, St. Louis, daughter of oncologist; Yale University; career CIA; best, brightest, most beautiful; thirty-eight years old now and forever. What was the point of saving the world if there was no Susan Okada in it?

Fuck, he thought. If I had to do it again, I’d trade her life for all those guys in suits who think they’re so important. The generals, the admirals, the president, his cabinet officers. Let the devil have them all for an eternity of punishment and take me along for good measure, torture me, it’s fine, if it could spare Susan Okada’s life. Fuck ’em, he thought. Fuck ’em all to hell forever, and me too, fuck me, just fuck me to hell.

God, how it sucked hard and long. He wished he could sink back into dreamless nothingness. If only one of the thousands of shots taken in his direction over the years had been better aimed or untouched by wind he would not have this nearly unendurable thing festering in his brain. He just lay there for a long, long time, hoping to die, but death seemed to be off duty. Where was it when you needed it? Come on, motherfucker, take me, not her. Okay. Me, I’m the one you want, the one you been trying to nab all these years. But death didn’t answer.

Finally, he looked around the hotel room, remembered the debriefing, the statement, the medical check, remembered that Ray and Nick were somewhere else. He wasn’t sure what time it was or what time he’d gotten back, but he’d crashed hard and slept straight through after something like seventy-two on his feet. A message light blinked on the phone, and he picked it up, had twenty-six of them, dumped through them fast until Nick came on, saying, “We’re going to debrief again in the director’s office at one thirty today. Let me know you got this.”

He tried to figure out the coffee machine, finally got it going. He looked at his watch. It was 11:17 on the first day of a rest of his life he did not want. He went to the door, opened it, and found a Washington Post .

He glanced at it. About three-quarters of the front page seemed to be bullshit: spin, counterspin, counter-counterspin, blame, recrimination, disavowal, analysis long term, analysis short term. What the Administration said, what the opposition said, what the English and the French said, what Al-Jazeerah said. Where the fuck were the facts? One story seemed to be the update, and he pressed through it.

Six dead, the rest contusions, sprains, a few broken bones, a few heart emergencies, and some feeling very hurt. No big guys had gone down. Sing hallelujah. Decorate the tree. Hide the painted eggs. Get out the funny masks. Fuck all suits, uniforms, and the men who thought they deserved them. Theirs, ours, it was all the same.

As far as the launch team at Iwo: the two dead-by-police scientists were Khalid Biswa, who worked guidance in the Indian rocket program, though he was a Muslim. Indian Secret Service suspected him of passing secrets to the Pakistanis, and he had disappeared about three years ago. The other guy was Dr. Faisal Ben-Abuljami, University of Alexandria, computer sciences, consultant for years to various bad apple groups who wanted to take their jihad into cyberspace. And the final guy, the one who survived, a real world-class Palestinian operator named Bilal Ayubi, a thousand ops, wanted all over Europe and especially by the Israelis. Evidently the sort of guy you wouldn’t want to mix with on a dark night.

The phone rang.

It was Cruz.

“Hey, spotter,” he said. “How’s the old guy?”

“I feel like shit.”

“I’m sorry about Okada, Gunny. I know she was special to you.”

“You lose people. It’s wrong, it’s sad, it’s the cruelty of the goddamn process, but it ain’t ever going away. You lose people. I’ll go to the funeral, I’ll get over it, or at least figure out how to keep going. Anyway, hell of a shot you made.”

“That was Whiskey Two-Two’s shot. It’s the one I was born to make. It’s the one Billy Skelton died to get done. In the end, it was easy. Some old dog ranged it for me. I was just the triggerman.”

“Ray, let me just say it: you’re the goddamn best. Nobody ever pays the IOUs that guys like you-”

“And guys like you-”

“And Susan Okada. Whatever. Nobody pays the IOUs that guys like you and she rack up, so you end up doing it for free, for nothing. They even forget to say, hey, thanks, you saved the world, or at least a little neighborhood of it. But you and her, you saw what nobody else saw and you figured out what nobody else figured out and had the guts to move on it. Because of the two of you we’re going to live in one kind of a place instead of another.”

“She was the best. As for me, I just had a big charge of vitamin DNA.”

“Will I see you at this meet? Ray, we ought to get to know each other, hang out. I hope you’ll come and meet your sisters and step-mom. I hope-”

“Gunny, I’m calling from Lejeune. I turned myself in to shore patrol today. We’ll let the corps straighten out what’s to be done with me. I’ll get back as soon as I know and we’ll set something up.”

“Can’t wait,” said Bob, knowing he would make it happen.

DIRECTOR’S OFFICE

HOOVER BUILDING

PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE

WASHINGTON, DC

1350 HOURS

Nobody said much. They were in the suite, not the office proper, a perk that came with being heroes. They sat in beautiful leather chairs, so English clubby, around a coffee table, and the director ran the show, assisted by Walter Troy, repping the Agency, head of the damage-assessment team.

“So it’s a victory but nobody’s happy. It cost a lot, maybe too much. We all feel the pain of the loss. But we have to go on. That’s all anyone can say.”

“I don’t want anything happening to Cruz,” said Swagger. “Losing Okada hurt enough but that would really screw the pooch.”

“I’ve been making arrangements, and as you might imagine, the White House is dead on board,” said the director. “He should get a stripe out of this or take the damned commission they’ve been trying to force on him for years. We managed to get the Baltimore prosecutor’s office to drop its interest in him, in exchange for the DNA samples that put Bogier in the Filipino house.”

“That’s good to know,” said Swagger. “I’m sure the corps will treat him fairly.”

“If it doesn’t, I’ll indict it,” said Nick.

“As for you, Mr. Swagger, I’m not sure what we can pay you. Money? I doubt you’d cash the check. Peace and quiet? That’s the only coinage you’d respond to. Or do you want more medals?”

“I’m fine,” said Swagger. “Cruz is okay and you’ll get Okada some kind of medal for her folks. Let’s change the subject.”

“I’m a little unclear on Arlington,” said Nick. “Couldn’t make much sense of it in the papers. How come the tough guy survived and the others didn’t?”

“Warrior’s luck. He shot it out with the Arlington police. Hit three times, too tough to die. He’s in the hospital, under heavy guard, expected to recover. Won’t say a word, hard to the end. The others were ordered to surrender and simply walked into the guns. The cops had no choice. They must have been good friends. They went to paradise together, holding hands.”

“Anything else?” Troy asked.

Bob said, “Have you arrested Hollister yet?”

“That’s the bad news. He dumped the SUV two blocks from the White House and disappeared. We figure he was going to a meet when you picked him up, and once he broke free, he disappeared. He called them, they came and got him. It had to be pro. They disappeared him well. I’m betting it was Pakistani intelligence. They’re all over this.”