Rogue Commander, page 16
part #3 of Titus Black Series
“But we know for a fact that Rangers were involved in this. Longmire was Navy.”
“Yes, but he was stationed in Pensacola for a while. That’s the great melting pot for the military. All branches have some sort of presence there, and Longmire was one of the higher ups at the Navy base during his stint there. He would’ve crossed paths with guys from every branch. And given his popularity among his men, I don’t think this is out of the realm of possibility.”
Blunt scowled. “What you’re saying is that you don’t have any other theories?”
“Everything is pointing to Longmire.”
Blunt shrugged. “That’s how you see it. I’m still wondering why he would need a large infusion of cash like that all of a sudden.”
“That’s a good question. I hacked into his financial records and he’s not spending like someone who has suddenly decided they want to live high on the hog. I would consider his spending habits to be quite average by any standard.”
“So, what do you think he’s doing with it?”
“I don’t know yet, but I have a hunch he’s up to something more than just amassing a fortune for fun.”
Blunt’s phone buzzed with a call from Besserman.
“What’s the good news?” Blunt asked.
“I’m afraid I only have bad news to report,” Besserman said. “A Russian nuclear sub that was trolling dangerously close to the U.S. disappeared off the radar.”
“And?”
“Even Moscow is in a panic about this.”
“What do you mean? They are acting like they didn’t have anything to do with it?”
“Even more curious,” Besserman said. “They’ve solicited our help in locating and destroying it.”
“Destroying it?”
“Yes, they believe the sub commander is acting on his own based on some intelligence they have, which they haven’t shared with us yet.”
“And you don’t think this is some kind of ploy?”
“It’d be a dangerous one, but based on everything we’re hearing from our well-placed sources over there, this is not a ruse. Moscow is possibly even more panicked than Washington is right now.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
“I’m putting together a black ops team to deal with the threat once we find it. And you have someone uniquely skilled for the job.”
“All right,” Blunt said. “I’ll let him know.”
“In the meantime, did those financial records help you figure out who was behind Al-Sabah’s kidnapping?”
“We only have theories at the moment, but they’re rapidly developing. I’ll keep you up to date when we have something more concrete.”
Blunt hung up and sighed. Then he had a thought that lit up his eyes.
“Tell me more about Longmire,” he said.
CHAPTER 30
PRESIDENT CONRAD MICHAELS read over his notes again, checking for any word combinations that might make him stumble or pronunciations that were challenging. He hated getting mocked by late night television comedians and didn’t want to give them any easy material. While many pundits credited Michaels’s victory in the recent general election to his speech-making prowess, he hated public speaking. His real strength as Commander-in-Chief was how he diplomatically handled both his foes and friends.
The gala tonight epitomized his ability to strike a tone that resonated with both sides of Washington’s contentious political aisle. Both Democrats and Republicans alike would be gathered to raise money for a private program that helped rehabilitate the homeless.
A knock at his door interrupted his concentration before an aide stuck his head inside the room.
“Are you ready, Mr. President?”
“Almost.”
“You’re scheduled to be on in two minutes.”
Michaels nodded. “I’ll be ready then.” He coughed a couple times before clearing his throat.
He glanced over the speech once more before taking a deep breath and opening the door. In the hallway, his team of assistants fussed over him. One of the aides from his campaign rushed over and straightened his tie.
“The next election cycle is fast approaching, and we can’t have any sloppy appearances,” the man said.
Michaels put his hand up. “Whatever you need to do to make me look dashing for the public.”
Another one of his aides spoke up. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure you still want to do this? I mean, there’s still time to tell the event organizers that you fell ill.”
Michaels furrowed his brow. “I’m fine. It’s just a cold.”
The aide shaking his head to Michaels' left sighed.
“What is it, Jeffrey?” Michaels asked.
“This is why you need to be using your hand sanitizer immediately before and after these events. Everyone wants to touch the President . . . and then they pass on their sickness to you.”
“I’m fine. It comes with the territory.”
The woman managing the stage activities welcomed Michaels and briefed him on what was about to happen. Michaels nodded and looked down at his papers. A few moments later, the emcee announced the president and invited him on stage.
Michaels strode out, waving to a crowd that hadn’t waited more than a second to give him a standing ovation.
“Sit down, sit down,” Michaels said, gesturing for everyone to have a seat. “I haven’t cured cancer or anything like that.”
The crowd ignored his pleas, only escalating its thunderous applause.
“All right, all right. That’s enough. You guys knock it off. We’re all here for a good cause tonight, right?”
Many in the audience shouted out various replies, all in agreement. After a few more seconds, the clapping subsided and everyone sat back down.
“Wow,” Michaels said. “You really know how to make someone feel welcome, which I guess would make sense since you’re all here tonight to raise money for an incredible charity that wants to help the homeless in our communities get back on their feet.”
More applause.
Michaels finished his speech by announcing that he would be donating a million dollars personally that night and challenged others in the audience to do so as well. When he was finished, event organizers ushered Michaels, flanked by Secret Service members, over to a receiving line.
One of the women leaned in close and spoke in a hushed tone. “These people all donated ten thousand dollars or more just to get a minute to speak with you along with a picture. Is that still okay with you?”
Michaels nodded. “That’s fine. But I would ask that people avoid trying to shake my hand. I’m battling a little bit of a cold and don’t want to pass it along to anyone.”
“Of course.”
Once Michaels was in place and the line had formed, the woman informed the crowd about the ban on shaking the president’s hand. The grip-and-grin session was scheduled to last thirty minutes as only the first thirty people who made the requested donation were admitted into the cue.
When Michaels reached the last donor, the man went to shake Michaels’s hand.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well,” Michaels said as he withdrew.
The man didn’t relent. “I’m Private First Class Henry Reynolds, and I’ve waited my entire life to shake the hand of the president of these great United States of America. And I doubt I’ll ever get this close again. Please, Mr. President.”
Michaels shrugged. “Well, all right. I guess I can make an exception for you.”
They both turned toward the photographer and smiled as he snapped a photo. However, when Michaels attempted to pull his hand away, he felt a piece of paper.
“Don’t read that now,” the man said. “But please check it out the moment you step out of the room. It’s important.”
Michaels nodded and thanked the man for his service. Once he was out of sight, Michaels hustled out the back with his security team. They reached the service entrance and helped him into the limo before heading to the White House.
“Great job out there tonight,” one of his aides said. “You really connected with that crowd, which was distinctly bipartisan. America doesn’t see many scenes like that in the political realm anymore.”
“Hopefully that will continue to change,” Michaels said.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, his duties done for the day. He just wanted a shot of bourbon to take the edge off. As he leaned forward in his seat, he heard the piece of paper crinkle in his pocket. He dug his hand inside and fished out the note.
I’d almost forgotten.
Michaels unfolded the message and read the note to himself.
You have a nuclear missile pointed at Washington. If Zachary Olson is not released from military prison in twenty-four hours and delivered to the Cape Verde airport at hanger 13, I will give the order to fire.”
Michaels snatched the limo’s phone off the hook and dialed his security advisor’s number. Catherine Way answered the phone.
“Good evening, Mr. President. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I need to reach someone at the CIA,” he said. “We’re under a direct threat right now.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll connect you with someone over there.”
He seethed, mulling all the possibilities of who might be behind this crisis in the making. While he continued to wait, he asked one of his assistants to call the event organizers and request a photo of the last person he chatted with in the receiving line.
Eventually, Catherine returned, her airy voice betraying the tension he felt in the moment. “I’ve got CIA Deputy Director Robert Besserman on the line for you, sir. Do you want me to stay on the call with you?”
“That’s fine,” he said. “Patch me through.”
“Mr. President,” Besserman said. “It’s an honor to speak with you this evening. However, I understand there’s something urgent you need the agency’s help with. So, let’s cut straight to the chase. What do you need?”
“Who the hell is Zachary Olson? And why is some terrorist group demanding I release him immediately?”
CHAPTER 31
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
BLUNT PRESENTED HIS credentials to the guard at the post outside the gate and waited to be waved inside. Once Blunt was permitted to proceed, he pulled into the parking garage and found a space near the stairs. The lot was rather desolate at 10:00 p.m., but based on the line of cars pouring into the facility, Blunt figured there must have been a sizable number of agents called in to handle the growing emergency.
He hustled up the steps with a cigar hanging out of his mouth. Once inside, he scanned his contractor pass. The guard sitting nearby shouted at Blunt to stop.
“Sir, I’m afraid there’s no smoking in the building,” the man said.
“Don’t worry,” Blunt said as he spun around and walked away. “I don’t even own a lighter.”
Blunt took the elevator up to Besserman’s office, which was crowded with several officials from the Pentagon as well as agents and other low-level directors.
“Gentlemen,” Blunt said, nodding toward everyone.
“J.D., thank you for making it down here so quickly on such short notice,” Besserman said.
“This isn’t the kind of thing that can wait,” Blunt said.
Besserman continued the meeting by discussing how they were going to handle the armed sub once it was found. They debated whether to annihilate it, sink it, or tow it back to harbor and do a little reconnaissance work on the Russian vessel. The Navy representative was adamant about using the operation as an opportunity to delve into the Russian technology and compare it to the U.S. Navy’s. While that sounded appealing, Besserman spoke as the voice of reason.
"This is an operation based on goodwill, something we don't often get with the Russians," Besserman said. "Given that our technology has maintained a healthy advantage over the past three decades, I think it'd be foolish to risk discovering what we already know just because we can. The great downside is action like that would negate any bridge building that could happen here."
Oliver Russell, the Secretary of Homeland Security, objected. “Would the Russians do the same if the shoe were on the other foot?”
Blunt shook his head. “Apples to oranges comparison. If they had great technology, you bet your ass we’d be tearing the sub apart. But that’s not the case now. We should act out of a position of strength and not abuse our power. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”
Besserman slapped the table. “Okay, glad that’s settled.”
They moved on to discussing how they were going to handle the sub. After a rigorous debate, the group gathered opted to sink the sub and then let the Russians know where it was to tow it back to port. They decided that was the best solution for handling all the dead bodies while also assuring the Russians that the U.S. didn’t use the incident as an invitation to spy on their subs.
They started to plot out what the mission would look like. A cast of superlative Navy SEALs had already been assembled, both active duty and retired, including Brady Hawk from the Firestorm team. The unusual melding was required given the large number of operatives required to sink the vessel before it could fire a nuclear warhead at Washington.
As they were wrapping up, one of Besserman’s assistants interrupted the meeting with a knock on the door. Besserman excused himself and returned a couple of minutes later.
“What’s happening?” one of the men asked.
“I just got the official word from The White House that the president isn’t going to acquiesce to the terrorists’ demands.”
“Meaning?” another asked.
“We have less than twenty-four hours to find that sub,” Besserman said.
“That won’t be a problem,” Russell said. “I just received word that the sub has been located and is lurking just beyond our boundary in the Atlantic in international waters.”
Blunt nodded. “Looks like this is it then.”
Besserman dismissed the group before grabbing Blunt by the arm and asking him to remain behind.
“What is it, Bobby?” Blunt asked.
Besserman closed the door. “Where are we with Commander Longmire?”
“We just started our search for him.”
“Do whatever you can to put all your resources into finding him.”
Blunt nodded. “Of course, but if we sink this sub, we’ll neutralize the threat. I mean, for all we know, he’s on that ship.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Even if he’s not, it’s not like he has unlimited funds to continue to rain down terroristic threats on us.”
“Well, he’s got something intangible, the kind that’s difficult to gauge and even tougher to combat.”
“And what’s that?” Blunt asked.
“Loyalty. I read up on his file. His men had a strong affinity for him, even after the Navy dismissed him for insubordination.”
“Insubordination? What did he do?”
“I’m trying to find out. It’s classified, and I haven’t been able to get anyone to lift the restrictions on it.”
“Classified even for you?”
Besserman nodded. “You think I’d be able to get access to all his personnel files, but that’s not the case. He either has some very powerful allies in Washington or has some dirt on the people who make those decisions. Either way, until we learn more, I think we need to turn over every rock to look for this guy. Something in my gut tells me that he’s not done yet.”
“Your gut?”
“Look, Longmire was a fantastic commander, and one of his strengths in battle was his ability to distract the enemy in order to move in for the strike.”
“So you think this sub in the Atlantic is a distraction?”
“Maybe, maybe not. He’s a wildcard. But don’t think this thing is over by any stretch of the imagination.”
Blunt nodded. “I’ll keep pushing my team and give you updates as I get them.”
Besserman thanked Blunt before he hustled to his car. Once there, he called Shields.
“Any news?” she asked after she answered the phone.
“The president isn’t going to negotiate, but we located the rogue Russian sub,” Blunt said. “We’re sending a team into the Atlantic tonight to sink it.”
“Anything else?”
“Besserman is concerned that this is all a giant smokescreen, so keep searching for Longmire.”
“We’re on it, but nothing is ringing any bells at the moment.”
“Just keep looking,” Blunt said. “This city and the lives of everyone in it may depend upon it.”
CHAPTER 32
38°00’45.9”N 73°18’25.3”W
International Waters
BRADY HAWK EASED into the icy Atlantic Ocean and then used his underwater propulsion vehicle to dive deep beneath the surface. A team of two dozen men joined him on the mission. Hawk thought it was overkill, but the mission commander wanted each operative to set exactly one charge before returning immediately to their vessel.
Using a shrimp trawler, the captain navigated them along a well-worn route, dropping the men off a quarter of a mile west of the Russian sub. The boat slowed its pace while waiting for the mission to be completed, hoping not to arouse any suspicion from the Russians—or whoever was operating the submarine.
Hawk was instructed to plant his explosive device near the engine, designated as the last person to set his charge, subsequently arming them all. Everything seemed to be going as planned. One by one, team members peeled away and returned to the trawler, believing their task had been completed. As Hawk prepared to place his charge on the hull, he heard clanking through the water. Turning, he found one rogue operative brandishing a gun and shooting at those around him. He killed two men and slashed the hose on another SEAL’s oxygen tank before dropping their charges into the depths below.
