Dale Brown - Act of War

“Bolton, what are you doing up there?” Jason Richter radioed from inside CID One. He looked toward the bow and saw Carl Bolton in CID Three, the newest model, climbing down from the bow lookout. “Get down here and let’s secure this tub.”

“I can’t get the hang of this thing,” Bolton complained. He finally got the nerve to just jump the ten meters down to the deck and found the landing much softer than he expected. “I don’t know how Moore did it.” He and Jason stood guard at various places around the vessel, staying out of sight but still prepared to fight off any response from police or port security. DeLaine, Jefferson, and the two agents were belowdecks for about fifteen minutes. Soon they were back on the wharf, folding and stowing the CID units and hurrying away in a rental truck. They could see the police starting to arrive in the rearview mirrors as they sped away.

“We didn’t find anything in Gemici’s cabin, and we couldn’t find Boroshev’s cabin,” Kelsey said. “But we did find several folders of notes. Looks like we’re going sightseeing, guys.”

A Secret Location

Early the next day

“We were raided!” Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov screamed into the secure satellite phone. “You sonofabitch, we were raided!”

“Shto ty priyibalsa ka mn’e, Yegor?” the voice on the other end of the connection known as the Director asked in passable Russian. “Calm yourself.”

“They had a firefight with Gemici’s men on his ship—with two of those damned robots!” Zakharov shouted. “They’re here, right now. You knew about it, and you said nothing!”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Zakharov!” the Director retorted. “I told you to stay out of the United States. Instead you engineer another attack! Now look at what you’ve accomplished: the fucking President of the United States has gone before Congress and asked for a declaration of war on you! You brought this on yourself!”

“What do you intend to do about it?”

“ ‘Do?’ I’m not going to do a fucking thing!” the man insisted. “You’ve got one more job to do out there, and then you’re out. You’ve already been paid half the cost of the last job—you’d better finish it. After you’re done, you should take your money and go back to Brazil or the Caribbean or whatever rock you intend to hide under, and disappear. Stay that way.”

“The mission was, Kingman dies,” Zakharov said. “He’s managed to escape every time.”

“The mission was: you do as I say, when I say it, and you get paid,” the Director snapped. “I never wanted you to strike inside the United States. If I told you once, I told you a dozen times: attack Kingman everywhere but the United States. No one is going to care if you blow up a trillion dollars’ worth of oil infrastructure in Nigeria or a power plant in Brazil, but blow up one oil head in the United States and they’d send the Marines out after you. Now you’ve got something even worse than the Marines—this lousy little task force. The attack in San Francisco was a waste of time and resources. I told you he wouldn’t be there, and blowing up that building hasn’t stopped his operation even for one day! The only thing you’ve succeeded in is enraging the Americans, turning most of the world against you, and driving Kingman even deeper belowground.”

“You’re nothing but a fucking coward!” Zakharov shouted. “I knew what you wanted: you wanted to see Kingman dead…”

“Wrong, you idiot. I want Kingman bent, broken, humiliated, bankrupt, and defeated—then dead,” the Director said. “But you’re not going to do it by blowing up his headquarters in San Francisco. You’re turning him into the aggrieved party—people are even starting to feel sorry for the conniving bastard!”

“If you’d give me all the money I need, I could have his entire worldwide operation in flames in a year!”

“You’re being paid very well,” the Director said. “These added expenses caused by your escapade in San Francisco are coming out of your pocket. Finish this one last job, then go on your way. I never want to speak to you again.”

“What about this task force?” Zakharov asked. “What about those robots? What am I supposed to do about them?”

“Sounds to me like you might need a lot more men,” the Director said. “They’re your problem. It would definitely be in your best interest to smash them, before they get any more support or funding. Use every weapon and every man you can scrape up, but take them down once and for all.”

“I need more information on them,” Zakharov said. “You can get me the data on their technology I need to destroy them.”

“I’m not your messenger boy, Zakharov…!”

“You’re involved in this as much as I am,” Zakharov said. “You can get the data. I’m busy doing your dirty work—you can sit back in your comfortable office, push a few buttons on your computer, and get what I need, and we’ll both be better off.”

There was a short pause on the line. Just as Zakharov thought he had hung up, the Director said, “Check your secure e-mail box when you can. I’ll see what I can find out. But you are the fighter. You’re being paid a lot of money to fight smart and win. Do it right this time, Zakharov. Don’t screw it up again.”

The White House, Washington, D.C.

A short time later

“She’s here, sir,” the outer office secretary said, standing in her boss’s doorway, “and I’m afraid she’s not going to leave until she gets some time with you.”

Robert Chamberlain made a show of running a hand through his ever-thinning hair and turned in his seat. From there, he could see the west entrance to the White House—and sure enough, there she was, surrounded by her ever-present camera crew and a small crowd of curious onlookers: Kristen Skyy of SATCOM One News. “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that,” he muttered.

“What do you want to do, sir?”

He shook his head with extreme, exaggerated irritation. “She wants to talk to me, not the President?”

“She said only to you.”

“What did Collins say?” All press interviews had to be approved by the President’s chief of staff first, but he knew that Collins rarely said “no” to anyone, especially to a female correspondent.

“She hasn’t spoken to the chief of staff. She showed up outside without an appointment and asked to talk to you. Do you want me to contact Miss Collins’s office?”

“No, don’t bother. I’m not going to give her a statement of any kind anyway.” The last thing he wanted now was for that busybody Collins to find out so soon that Skyy was here. Chamberlain sighed, then nodded. “All right, let’s get it over with. But the camera crew stays in the Appointments Lobby until I find out what she wants.”

Minutes later, Kristen Skyy breezed into Chamberlain’s office. A couple of days locked away in New Mexico only helped to make her look even more beautiful, he thought. Although her handshake was sincere enough and the smile looked genuine, he could definitely feel that aura of anger inside her at being cooped up at the Task Force TALON training area after returning from Brazil. “Have a seat, Miss Skyy. I have a really busy day, so I hope you don’t mind if this meeting is short.”

She didn’t sit, but marched right up to his desk before he could rise or sit elsewhere; he was forced to lean back in his chair to increase the distance between them, something he didn’t like. “I just have one question, Mr. Chamberlain: why hasn’t my request to accompany Task Force TALON overseas been approved?” Kristen asked.

“The answer should be obvious, Miss Skyy—TALON is moving fast and operational security is absolutely critical,” Chamberlain replied. “They can’t afford to watch over you while taking on Zakharov and his gang of terrorists all over the world.”