File Zero

“Jackass,” muttered Lieutenant Davis, the communications officer, seated near Thomas at the radar array. He smirked and said into the radio, “Sorry, Ensign Gilbert? Can you repeat that for your lieutenant?”

Thomas chuckled as Gilbert let out a soft groan. “All right, all right,” said the young man from the top deck. “I’ve got visual on three IRGC ships to the northeast, traveling at about fourteen knots or so and looking to be a little more than a half mile out.” Then he quickly added, “Sir.”

Thomas nodded, impressed. “You’re good. They’re at point-five-six. Anyone want to take some action on this?”

“I’ve got a fiver that says they veer off by point-four,” said Davis.

“I’ll see that and raise,” said Petty Officer Miller behind them, swiveling around in his chair. “Ten bucks says they reach point-three. You in, Cohen?”

Thomas shook his head. “Hell no. Last time you guys took me for twenty-five bucks.”

“And he’s got a wedding to save up for,” Davis chided with a nudge.

“Y’all are thinking small,” Gilbert said in the radio. “These guys are cowboys, I can feel it. A certain Mr. Jackson says not only do they come within point-two-five, but we get an Iranian dick pic.”

“Don’t be crass,” Davis scolded Gilbert for his lewd metaphor of the IRGC firing off a rocket.

“That’d be a nice change of pace,” Miller muttered. “Most exciting thing that’s happened around here in two weeks was enchilada day.”

It was not at all lost on Lieutenant Cohen that an outside observer might have thought it insane for them to be making small wagers on whether or not a ship fired a missile. But after so many so-called confrontations yielding nothing, it was hardly anything to fret over. Besides, the US rules of engagement were clear; they would not fire unless directly fired upon first, and the Iranians knew that. The Constitution was exactly as its class implied: a destroyer. If a rocket fell close enough for them to feel the heat of it, they could obliterate the IRGC ship in seconds.

“Point-four and closing,” Thomas announced. “Sorry, Davis. You’re out.”

He shrugged. “Can’t win ’em all.”

Thomas frowned at the array. It looked as if the two ships flanking either side of the third were veering, but the central ship continued on a straight path. “Gilbert, check visual.”

“Aye aye.” There was a moment of silence before the ensign reported back. “Looks like two of the ships are breaking off, south-southeast and south-southwest. But I think that third boat wants to be friends. What did I tell you, Cohen? Cowboys.”

Miller sighed. “Where is Captain Warren? We should alert—”

“Captain on the bridge!” a sharp voice bellowed suddenly. Thomas hopped up from his seat and issued a crisp salute, along with the four other officers in the control room.

The XO entered first, a tall and square-jawed man who looked a lot more serious than he usually came off as. He was followed by a hasty Captain Warren, his slight paunch straining the lowest buttons of his tan short-sleeved shirt. On his head he wore a Navy baseball cap, the dark blue looking almost black in the dim lighting of the bridge.

“As you were,” Warren said gruffly. Thomas slowly took his seat again, exchanging a concerned glance with Davis. The captain was likely aware of the approaching IRGC ships, but for him to be here with three boats looming so close meant that something was going on. “Listen up and listen good, because I’m going to say this quick.” The captain frowned deeply. He normally wore a frown—Thomas couldn’t recall ever seeing Warren smile—but this frown seemed particularly dismayed. “Orders have just come down the pipe. There’s been a change in ROE. Any ships that fire within a half-mile proximity are to be considered hostile and dealt with using extreme prejudice.”

Thomas blinked at the sudden rush of words, failing to comprehend at first.

Petty Officer Miller forgot himself for a moment as he said, “Dealt with? You mean destroyed?”

“That’s right, Miller,” said Captain Warren as he locked eyes with the young man, “I mean destroyed, demolished, obliterated, devastated, wrecked, and/or ruined.”

“Um, sir?” Davis spoke up. “If they fire at all? Or if they fire upon us?”

“The release of a weapon that could result in a loss of life, Lieutenant,” Captain Warren told him. “Whether aimed at us or not.”

Thomas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The IRGC had fired rockets plenty of times since he had been aboard the Constitution, many of those times within a half mile of them. He found it exceedingly bizarre and coincidental that the rules of engagement would be changed so swiftly—and at the precise moment when an Iranian ship was bearing down on them.

“Look,” said Warren, “I don’t like this any more than you do, but you all know what happened. Frankly, I’m surprised it took the government this long. But here we are.”

Thomas knew precisely what the captain was referring to. Mere days earlier, a terrorist organization had attempted to blow up the USS New York, an Arleigh-Burke destroyer that was moored at the Port of Haifa in Israel. And only two days ago, the same insurgent cell had taken out an underwater tunnel in New York City. Captain Warren had convened the entire crew in the mess hall to tell them the dire news. The CIA had caught wind of the attack just hours before it was carried out and managed to save a lot of lives, but hundreds had still perished and far too many were yet unaccounted for. The scale of the attack was not nearly that of 9/11, but it was still one of the most substantial attacks on US soil in the last hundred years.

“This is the world we live in now, boys,” said Warren, shaking his head in disdain. Clearly he was thinking the same thing as Thomas. They all were.

“It’s veering off,” said Gilbert through the radio, jarring Thomas out of his thoughts and back to his console. The ensign was right; the third ship was just shy of point-three miles and steering toward the west. “Looks like I’ll be out twenty bucks.”

Thomas let out a sigh of relief. In another minute the ship would be gone, beyond a half-mile range, and the Constitution would continue its easterly patrol route toward the strait. Please don’t do anything stupid, he thought as he said, “IRGC cruiser is at point-two-eight, veering east. Doesn’t look like it’s interested in us, sir.”

Warren nodded, though if he was as glad as Thomas, he didn’t show it. The lieutenant could guess why; the rules of engagement had changed, and quite suddenly at that. How long would it be before they found themselves in another situation like this one?

Lieutenant Davis looked up sharply and suddenly. “They’re hailing us, sir.”

Captain Warren closed his eyes and sighed. “All right. Relay this, and be quick about it.” More than just the communications officer, Davis was fluent in Arabic and Farsi. He translated the captain’s message as Warren spoke it, listening and talking at the same time. “This is Captain James Warren of the USS Constitution. The US Navy’s rules of engagement have changed. Your superiors should be aware of this by now, but if you are not, we are fully sanctioned by the American government for the use of deadly force should any vessel—”

“Rocket out!” Gilbert cried in Thomas’s ear.

“Rocket out!” Thomas repeated. Before he even knew what he was doing, he tore the headset from his head and dashed to the port windows. In the distance he saw the IRGC cruiser, as well as the brilliant red streak soaring in a high arc in the sky, a plume of smoke trailing behind it.

As he watched, a second rocket fired off from the deck of the Iranian ship. They were fired on a trajectory parallel to the Constitution, far enough off that they would hardly make waves for the destroyer.

Thomas spun to the captain. Warren’s face had turned a shade whiter. “Sir—”

“Return to your post, Lieutenant Cohen.” Warren’s voice was strained.

A knot of dread formed in Thomas’s stomach. “But sir, we can’t seriously—”

“Return to your post, 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 was amiss. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m fine. Just wanted to check on you.” Without another word, he quickly headed upstairs to his home office. He already knew what he needed and exactly where to find it. The first item was a burner phone that he had picked up, paid in cash with a few hundred prepaid minutes on it. Maya had the number. The second was the safe deposit box key. He knew where it was as if he always had, though earlier that morning he never would have remembered what it was for or why he had it. The key was in an old tackle box in his closet, what he had dubbed his “junk box,” filled with all sorts of old things that he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of though they hardly seemed worthwhile.

When he returned to the kitchen, he was not all that surprised to find both of his daughters standing there expectantly.

“Dad?” Maya said uncertainly. “What’s going on?”

Zero took his cell phone from his pocket and left it on the kitchen counter. “There’s something that I have to do,” he said vaguely. “And it’s…”

Incredibly dangerous. Monumentally stupid to do alone. Puts you directly in harm’s way. Again.

“It’s something that means people are likely going to be watching us. Carefully. And we need to be prepared for that.”

“Are we going to a safe house again?” Sara asked.

It broke Zero’s heart that she had to even ask that question. “No,” he told her. Then he scolded himself, remembering that he had promised them honesty. “Not yet. That might come later.”

“Does this have to do with what happened in New York?” Maya asked candidly.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But for now, just listen. There’s a man, an agency asset named Mitch. He’s a big guy, burly, with a bushy beard and wears a trucker’s cap. He runs the Third Street Garage. If I give him the go-ahead, he’s going to come here and bring you somewhere safe. Somewhere that not even the CIA knows about.”

“Why don’t we just go there now?” Sara asked.

“Because,” Zero replied honestly, “there’s a chance that people might already be watching us. Or at the very least, keeping an eye out for anything strange. If you don’t show up for school, or if I do something out of the ordinary, it might ring some alarms. You guys know the drill. You don’t let anyone in, you don’t go with anyone, and you don’t trust anyone except for Mitch, Agent Strickland, or Agent Watson.”

“And Maria,” Sara added. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Zero murmured. “And Maria. Of course.” He reached for the doorknob. “I won’t be long. Lock up behind me. I have the burner; call if you need me.” He headed out the door and strode quickly to his car, dismayed to find that the memory of him and Maria together was rattling around his head again.

Kate. You betrayed her.

“No,” he muttered to himself as he reached the car. He wouldn’t have. He loved Kate more than anything, anyone. As he slid behind the wheel and started the car, he searched his memory for any indication that he was wrong, that he and Maria had not had an affair while Kate was still alive. But there was none. His relationship at home had been a happy one; Kate was none the wiser about his work as a CIA agent. She believed his frequent travels were guest lectures at other colleges, research for a history book, summits, and conventions. She supported him fully while taking care of the two girls. He hid his injuries from her, and when he couldn’t, he made excuses. He was clumsy. He fell. At least once he had been jumped. The agency helped with his cover stories and, on more than one occasion, went so far as to create fake police reports to substantiate his claims.

She didn’t know.

But Maria did. Maria knew this entire time that they had been together while Kate was still alive, and she had said nothing. As long as Zero’s memory was fractured, she could tell him whatever he wanted to hear and withhold anything he didn’t know.

He suddenly realized how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white and his ears burning in anger. Deal with that later. There are more important things to do right now, he told himself as he headed to the bank to retrieve the evidence that he could only hope was enough to put a stop to this.

CHAPTER FOUR

There was little traffic in the early afternoon as Zero drove quickly to the Arlington bank. Twice he blew stop signs and even slammed the accelerator through a yellow light, each time reminding himself that avoiding scrutiny would be a good idea, and that a traffic violation would no doubt get flagged in the CIA system, alerting the agency-oriented conspirators to his whereabouts.

But his mind was hardly on the rules of the road. He had taken the precautionary measures to keep the girls safe, at least for now; next he would retrieve his files from the deposit box. That much was easy. But then would come the difficult part. Who do I take it to? The press? No, he realized, that would be too messy. Despite any muck and mire he might drag names through, the process of dismissing any of the figureheads from their posts would be lengthy and involve trials.

The United Nations? NATO? Once again the political and judicial process would hinder real progress. He needed something rapid; to bring what he knew to someone with the power to do something immediate and irreversible.

He already had the answer. Pierson. If the president was truly unaware of the plot, Zero could appeal to him. He would have to get the president alone somehow, bring him everything he had and knew. The president could stop all of this and could dismiss those responsible for it. Pierson seemed to hold Agent Zero in high regard; he trusted him and treated him like a friend. Although those traits had caused Zero to cast doubt and aspersions on Pierson in the past, he was now armed with his memory, his real memory, and he saw the president for what he was: a pawn in this game. Those in power wanted four more years so that they could manipulate things to their liking, in a manner that meant longevity regardless of who was in office.

He parallel-parked two blocks from the bank, no simple task with only one good hand. Before getting out of the car he reached over, popped the glove box, and rooted around until he found the small black tactical folding knife that he had stowed there.

Then he hurried down the street to the bank.

Zero tried to look patient as he waited for the three customers in front of him to finish their business, and then presented his photo ID to the teller, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile and too much lipstick.

“Let me get the branch manager,” she told him politely.

Two minutes later a man in a suit led him through a vault door to the deposit boxes. He unlocked the narrow rectangular door to 726, slid the box out, and set it on an otherwise empty steel table, bolted to the floor in the center of the room.

“Take your time, sir.” The manager nodded to him and gave him some privacy.

As soon as the man was gone, Zero lifted the lid to the box.

“No,” he murmured. He took one step backward and looked over his shoulder instinctively, as if someone might be there.

The box was empty.

“No, no.” He pounded a fist on the table with a dull thud. “No!” All of his documents, everything he had dug up on those that he knew were involved in the plot, were gone. Every piece of illegally obtained evidence that could potentially force the dismissal of heads of state was gone. Photos, transcriptions, emails… all of it, vanished.

Zero put his hands on his head and paced the room back and forth rapidly. His first thought was the most likely solution: someone else knew about the documents and took them. Who else knew about this box? No one. He was sure of it. You definitely didn’t give the information to someone and forgot about it? No. He wouldn’t have done that. He almost laughed at himself, at how insane the notion was that he might forget something that he didn’t know he knew only hours ago.

But then Zero remembered something else, not an unlocked memory, but one that he had experienced only days earlier, in the office of a Swiss neurosurgeon.