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Lieutenant,” the captain said again, his jaw flexing. Thomas obliged, lowering himself slowly to his seat but not taking his eyes off of Warren.
“This doesn’t come from the admiral,” he said, as if trying to explain to them what he knew had to happen. “Not even from the CNO. This is from the Secretary of Defense. Do you understand that? It’s a direct order in the interest of national security.”
Without another word, Warren plucked up a red phone mounted on the wall. “This is Captain Warren. Fire torpedoes.” There was a moment of silence, and the captain said again, forcefully, “Affirmative. Fire torpedoes.” He hung up the phone, but his hand lingered upon it. “God help us,” he murmured.
Thomas Cohen held his breath. He counted the seconds. He reached twelve before he heard Gilbert’s voice, soft and breathy and almost reverent through the radio.
“Jesus almighty.”
Thomas stood, not leaving his post but gaining a partial view of the port window. They heard no explosion through the thick armor-plated glass of the bridge, designed to sustain heavy ballistic fire. They felt no shockwave, absorbed as it was by the vast Persian Gulf. But he saw it. He saw the orange fireball rise in the sky as the IRGC ship was, as he had predicted, destroyed in seconds by a wave of torpedoes from the US destroyer.
The green blip vanished from his screen. “Target destroyed,” he confirmed quietly. He had no idea how many people they had just killed. Twenty. Maybe fifty. Maybe a hundred.
Davis stood as well, looking out the window as the orange fire dissipated, the ship torn asunder and sinking rapidly into the depths of the Persian Gulf. It might have been the angle, or the reflection of sunlight, but he could have sworn he saw his eyes gloss with the threat of tears.
“Cohen?” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “Did we just start World War Three?”
Five minutes earlier, the furthest thing from Lieutenant Thomas Cohen’s mind had been war. But now, he had every reason to suspect he wouldn’t be making it home to Pensacola in three weeks.
CHAPTER THREE
“Excuse me,” said Zero, “do you think we could drive just a bit faster?” He sat in the back seat of a black town car as a White House chauffeur took him home to Alexandria, less than thirty minutes from Washington, DC. They drove mostly in silence, for which Zero was thankful; it gave him some precious minutes to think. There was no time to sort through the deluge of newfound skills and history that had been unlocked in his head. He needed to focus on the task at hand.
Think, Zero. Who do you know is in on this? The secretary of defense, the vice president, congressmen, a handful of senators, members of the NSA, the National Security Council, even the CIA… Names and faces flashed through his mind like a mental Rolodex. Zero sucked in a breath as a tension headache began to form at the front of his skull. He had investigated many of them, had even found some evidence—the documents he had locked in the safe deposit box in Arlington—but he feared it wouldn’t be enough to definitively prove what was happening.
In his pocket, his cell phone rang. He let it go.
Why now? He didn’t need his newfound memories for that part. It was an election year. In a little more than six months, Pierson would either be reelected for a second term or ousted by a Democrat. And nothing would drum up more support than a successful campaign against a hostile foe.
He was certain that Pierson was not a part of it. In fact, Zero recalled during Pierson’s first year in office when he signed a bill decreasing US military presence in Iraq and Iran. He was opposed to further war in the Middle East without provocation… which was why those in the shadows needed the Brotherhood’s catalyst.
And while the US decreased their presence, the Russians increased theirs. Maria had mentioned that the Ukrainians were nervous that Russia intended to seize oil-producing assets in the Black Sea. That’s why she had made a cautious alliance with them to share information. The US conspirators were in bed with the Russians. The US would get the strait, and the Russians would get the Black Sea. The United States would do nothing to stop Russia from their endeavors, and Russia would respond in kind, possibly even lend support in the Middle East.
Two of the world’s superpowers would become richer, more powerful, and nigh unstoppable. And as long as there was peace between them, there would be no one to oppose them.
His phone rang again. The call registered as unknown. He wondered briefly if it could be Deputy Director Cartwright calling. Zero’s direct boss in the Special Activities Division of the agency was noticeably absent at the Oval Office meeting with President Pierson. It could have been official business that kept him away, but Zero had his doubts. Still, the caller (or callers) had not left voicemails and Zero did not bother to reach out to the CIA.
As they neared his home on Spruce Street, he made two calls. The first was to Georgetown University. “This is Professor Reid Lawson. I’m afraid I’ve come down with something. Most likely the flu. I’m going to see a doctor today. Can you see if Dr. Ford is available to take my lectures?”
The second call was to the Third Street Garage.
“Yeah,” the man that answered said in a grunt.
“Mitch? It’s Zero.”
“Mm.” The burly mechanic said it as if he had been expecting the call. Mitch was a man of few words, and also a CIA asset who had helped Zero when he needed to rescue his girls from Rais and a ring of human traffickers.
“Something’s come up. I may need an extraction for two. Can you be on standby?” The words rolled off his tongue as if they had been well-rehearsed—because they had, he realized, even if he hadn’t spoken them in some time. He couldn’t risk asking Watson or Strickland; they would likely be watched as carefully as he was. But Mitch operated off the radar.
“Consider it done,” Mitch said simply.
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up. His first instinct was to have his daughters taken to a safe house right away, but any deviation from their normal schedule might instigate suspicion. Mitch’s extraction was a failsafe in case he had reason to believe the girls’ lives were in imminent danger—and despite the trepidation over this heightened sense of paranoia, he had plenty of reason to believe it was justified.
Home was a two-story house on a corner lot in the suburbs of Alexandria. To the non-street side was a vacant home currently up for sale, having been the former residence of David Thompson, a retired CIA field agent who had been killed in Zero’s foyer.
He unlocked the door and quickly punched in the security code for the alarm system. He kept it set that the code needed to be entered every time someone came or went, regardless of who was home at the time. If the code wasn’t entered within sixty seconds of the door opening, an alarm would sound and local police would be alerted. In addition to the alarm system, they had security cameras both outside and inside, bolts on the doors and windows, and a panic room with a steel security door in the basement.
Still he feared it wouldn’t be enough to keep his daughters safe.
He found Maya lying on her back on the sofa and playing a game on her phone. She was nearly seventeen, and often vacillated between unprompted teenage angst and the foreshadowing of becoming a discerning adult. She had inherited her father’s dark hair and sharp facial features, while taking on her mother’s fierce intelligence and biting wit.
“Hey,” she said without looking away from the screen. “Did the president feed you? Because I could really go for Chinese tonight.”
“Where’s your sister?” he asked quickly.
“Dining room.” Maya frowned and sat up, sensing the urgency in his voice. “Why, what’s going on?”
“Nothing yet,” he answered cryptically. Zero hurried through the kitchen and found his younger daughter, Sara, doing homework at the table.
She glanced up at the sudden intrusion of her father. “Hi, Dad.” Then she too furrowed her brow, seemingly aware that something