Full Blast

“We understand, Hal,” Delahunt said.

Without another word, the team turned back to their workstations.

Brognola and Price moved across the room.

“Military Command in South Korea is on alert for anything they can pick up from over the border,” Price told the big Fed. “The word has come down from the President that we have a team in the north. He’s told Military Command to cooperate with us all the way down the line. I have a contact there. Major Chuck Yosarian.”

“Let’s hope it’s enough. Anything from Able in Hong Kong?”

Price shook her head. “Nothing since their last call. It looks as if they’ve come up against hard times. They know as much as we do. David’s team was taken by Kim Yeo and went off the chart.”

“Damn.” Brognola ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing worse than no contact. Yeah, I know it’s happened before. That doesn’t make it any easier. I hate standing around with my di—” Brognola grinned self-consciously. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to…”

Price smiled. “Don’t go all coy on me, Hal. I know how you feel.”

“Any feedback from Gadgets and Jack?”

“They’re running traces on Gardener, Justin and the CIA guy, Rod McAdam. High-profile individuals like Gardener and Justin aren’t easy to get to without them being aware.”

“Call coming through for you, Barb,” Delahunt said, holding a phone in her hand.

Price crossed the room and took the handset. She listened for a moment, then smiled. “That’s great news, Major. We’ll wait for them to contact us. And thanks again.”

Price replaced the phone.

“Well?” Brognola asked.

“Phoenix is being escorted into South Korean territory as we speak. That was Yosarian. Apparently his communication team picked up a radio call coming from an unknown source. Turned out to be Phoenix asking for backup. They were airborne but being threatened by a North Korean MiG. There was a South Korean patrol already in the air on routine patrol. They rendezvoused within minutes and the North Korean backed off.”

“We need to talk to Phoenix once they’re on the ground,” Brognola said. “Debrief for both sides.”

“Major Yosarian is setting that up now. He’ll have a secure connection ready as soon as they touch down.”

“Apparently the South Korean pilots were singing the praises of the pilot in the plane they escorted. Just before they made contact they saw him evade the MiG’s attack. Twice.”

“David,” Brognola said without a trace of surprise in his voice.

“Our man McCarter.” Price smiled at the thought of the Briton facing off a well-armed jet fighter. “And I’ll bet he never even broke a sweat.”

MCCARTER’S CALL came just under two hours later. He didn’t waste time being polite. Just got down to the facts.

“Henry Lee is dead. But to even the score, so are Kim Yeo and the bloody North Korean who sold Khariza his weapons. The really bad news, and this is going to piss everyone off, is that Sun Yang Ho sent off Khariza’s main cargo just after we arrived. According to Kim Yeo we have three nuclear devices en route to Khariza. Just to add to the problem, we don’t have any ID on the plane or where it’s heading.”

Price took in a sharp breath, unsure how to respond.

The rest of the cyberteam paused in its tasks as McCarter’s pronouncement reached them over the speakers.

Hal Brognola felt in his pockets for a cigar. He didn’t find one.

“I’m bringing you back, and Able from Hong Kong. We need to get together on this, David. Airlift as soon as I can arrange it.”

“We’ll be ready. Right now I’m off for a meal and then I’m getting my head down. Talk to you later, mate.”

Brognola cut the connection and glanced across at Price. “Travel arrangements for both teams.”

She nodded and reached for a phone. The big Fed turned to face the rest of the team.

“You all heard that. Let’s see what we can pick up. Use all your contacts. Anything and everything. Let’s see if we can pinpoint that camp in Chechnya.”

“What about Gadgets and Jack?” Price asked, punching in phone numbers.

“Leave them. The more I think about it, the more I get a funny feeling about Gardener, Justin and this CIA guy. Let’s see what their muddying the waters brings up.”

Washington, D.C.

“THAT WENT WELL,” Jack Grimaldi said.

They were in the car that was parked on the street just beyond Senator Ralph Justin’s town house. Earlier in the day they had paid an unannounced visit to the senator’s office, doing a little probing and pushing with Justin’s staff. The senator had walked in during their visit and had reacted just as they’d expected. Showing up at his house later in the day was just putting additional pressure on the man.

Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz loosened the tie he had been forced to wear along with his suit as part of his role as a Justice Department agent.

“I didn’t think that manservant was going to allow us inside. That guy was so stiff he was ready to fold in the middle.”

Grimaldi started the car and eased away from the curb. “You think Justin was fooled?”

“Hard to say, but I think we rattled him asking questions about his relationship with General Chase Gardener.”

“Just enough of a suggestion that concerns had been raised in certain quarters. Nothing specific. Hints and rumors, but enough to get him interested.”

“All we were doing was following up as protocol demanded,” Schwarz confirmed.

“He didn’t take it too kindly when you told him we couldn’t divulge any information Justice had on file.”

Schwarz took out his cell phone and contacted the Farm.

“Our friendly senator got a little frosty. I got the feeling he didn’t like being spoken to by a pair of lowly Justice agents,” he told Brognola. “My guess is he’ll be talking to Gardener as soon as he can get in touch. Which is just what we wanted.”

“What next?”

“We figure a little desert air is in order. A trip out to Arizona and Leverton.”

“The town near Gardener’s base?” the big Fed suggested.

“Fort Leverton, home to Gardener’s command. We’ll do a little prowling around. See if there’s anything to stir up.”

“Stay sharp,” Brognola warned. “If there is something going on, Gardener won’t be such a soft mark if he gets wind you’re checking him out.”

“What’s he going to do? Court-martial us?”

“Arizona. Big, lonely place. Lots of sand and desert. Easy to get lost out there. Accident or design.”

“Come on, Hal, stop dressing it up. Tell us what you really mean.”

“Call in when you get there,” Brognola directed.

“Will do.”

Grimaldi glanced at Schwarz as he put his phone away, noticing the faint smile edging his partner’s lips.

“Something funny?”

“Only Hal telling us to be careful.”

“He say that?”

“Not in so many words. That’s the funny part.”

Neither man spotted the plain, light-colored car that fell in line with the traffic and trailed them out of Washington. It followed them all the way to the commercial airstrip where a twin-engined Beechcraft sat waiting for them. The pilot was ready to go. He had his flight plan already filed, and the minute his passengers were settled, he spoke to the control tower and taxied out to the runway.

Razan Khariza’s Camp, Chechnya

RAZAN KHARIZA had completed his prayers and as he returned from the small, bare room he used for his devotions, he picked up excited sounds from outside the stone house. The door opened and Wafiq stood there.

They have a prisoner,” Abdul said. “Dushinov has a prisoner.”

Khariza followed Wafiq outside, pulling on his thick leather coat against the damp chill. He saw Zoltan Dushinov drag a bound figure from the rear of a battered pickup and throw it to the stony ground. When Dushinov looked up and saw Khariza, he raised a hand to beckon the Iraqi to join him, a satisfied smile on his bearded face.

“Didn’t I tell you they were looking for you?” Dushinov said. “Now you see I was right.”

“I believed you before, Zoltan. Why would I not?”

Dushinov dismissed the words with a shrug.

“This one was found trying to locate the camp. He had a guide. Some local from one of the villages. My men dealt with him. When the villagers find him and see what my men did, they will think twice before selling us out next time.”

Khariza reached the pickup and stood over the bloody, huddled figure on the ground. His clothing was torn and filthy. His feet were bare where someone had taken his boots and socks. His arms had been pulled behind him and tied high up his back with a length of rope taken around his neck.

“Who is he?”

Dushinov reached down and caught hold of the man’s hair, using it to pull him to his knees. The man’s face turned up, eyes meeting Khariza’s. He had already undergone a severe beating. His skin was heavily bruised and bloody. There was a deep gash across one cheek, bone gleaming white through the blood.

“He is an American,” Dushinov said loudly so that everyone could hear. “One of our enemies to be feared. Look at him, my brothers. Look at him and tremble. This is the great enemy who is going to conquer us all. Are you afraid?”

There was a raised yell of defiance from the gathered men. They moved to stare at the man on the ground, gesturing with their weapons and voicing their contempt.

“Here is your American, Razan. I give him to you as a gift. If you ask he may tell you why he is looking for you.”

“Take him inside,” Khariza ordered.

The American was dragged to his feet and taken to one of the buildings. Khariza followed slowly, his mind busy with questions he wanted to ask the prisoner. He wished he had Barak with him. The man had the skill to pull information from anyone. He was patient, thorough and dedicated to his work. And he was extremely loyal to Khariza. But now he was on Zehlivic’s motor vessel, Petra, somewhere off the North African coast where he was dealing with a matter allied to a Mossad agent named Sharon. The Israeli had been part of the group that had intercepted the team inserted into Israel as part of the strike against the nuclear plant at Dimona. The advance team had been killed, the plane on its way to carry out the attack intercepted and brought down.

The mission to destroy Dimona had been important—planned to demoralize the Israelis—and its loss was a definite blow. Khariza had taken the news badly at first but had pushed aside his disappointment, especially in front of his people. He had to remain strong and to show that defeats had to be borne with strength. Later, alone, he had reviewed the way his plans were going. The strike at Bucklow had achieved its purpose: a significant blow against the Americans. An added disappointment had come with the news that the second MOAB had been retaken by an American strike team and Khariza’s men defeated.

Khariza, in his solitary room, had sat facing the blank wall. His mind alive with thought. So many things he was dealing with; ongoing plans, logistics, financial matters. The dealing and bargaining to obtain the Massive Ordnance Air Burst and allied equipment he needed. The endless conversations with his people who were located in many different places. There was a great deal to maintain. So many people to keep updated and at one with their faith. For some, the smallest loss became almost total defeat. Khariza had had to employ his skills as an orator to allay their fears. Persuading, promising, soothing, he became all things to all men, and it was only when he was alone that he found himself questioning and calming his own deep, inner fears.

It wasn’t that he was ready to surrender, to call off the campaign that stretched across the Middle East and all the way to the American mainland. Khariza was, if nothing, a man at ease with himself and his objectives. His cause was just. He was doing it for God and for Iraq. Secretly, almost with a little embarrassment, he admitted that he was also doing it in part for himself. Since the capture of Iraq’s ex-president, Saddam Hussein, there had been a leadership vacuum. The current structure wasn’t proving fully successful. The diversity of tribal culture, of in-fighting and mistrust between interested groups, had led to a continual atmosphere of hostility. The random acts of violence perpetrated by insurgent groups, the destruction and killing, went on. Khariza had seen all this and the opportunity for someone to step in a take the country back—by force if necessary. He saw himself as that man. The prize was worth the risk.

Stakes were high, of course, so the need for grand gestures and hard action had become the only way. Khariza had no problems with that. The danger held no fear for him. He had lived most of his adult life on the edge, using his power and influence as tools to further his position. He knew and accepted the risks. There was a part of him that kept urging him to accept his fate. To acknowledge that he, Razan Khariza, was the man to step into the void left by Hussein. The former president of Iraq wasn’t going to return. His time was over and if the country was to have a new leader it needed someone with the strength of purpose and the will to do whatever became necessary, no matter how drastic.

Khariza believed he had those qualities. He also had the means to boost his credibility, namely the vast amounts of money that had been banked during the Hussein regime. Those funds were now under his control, and they gave him the buying power to gather what he wanted. He already had his three nuclear devices, and as long as they remained in his hands his bargaining was unbeatable. The nuclear gamble, if it paid off, could push him to the top. If it failed and he was pressured into actually using the bombs, Khariza was prepared to take that final extra step. He would deny the country to the enemy, even if it did exact his life as the ultimate price. He was aware of the obstacles in his way. The struggle that lay ahead made him pause, but only for a short time. If he lacked faith in himself, how could he expect others to follow and stay the course? He pushed aside thoughts of defeat and concentrated on the matters at hand.

Entering the building where the American had been taken, Khariza made his way to the room used as a cell and closed the door. The prisoner had been pushed against the far wall. He held himself as straight as was possible, restricted by the ropes binding his arms. Khariza crossed the room to stand in front of the man.

“What agency do you work for?”

The man remained silent.

“CIA? One of the other American agencies? Perhaps you are military? On a covert assignment for the Pentagon? We both know you have to be working for someone. You did not come here on a vacation. So why not tell me and let us get this over with. Cooperate, and I may even let you live. Force me to kill you and we will never know if I might have spared you. As admirable as your resistance is, how would your death profit me?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” the prisoner said.

Khariza gave a slight nod of his head, turning aside so that the two Chechens had room to confront the captive. They used their fists and feet, beating the prisoner until he was unable to stand, then continued when he lay on the floor. Finally they stepped back and allowed Khariza to resume his questioning. The American lay in a pool of his own blood, barely able to raise his head when Khariza squatted in front of him.

“It only begins here,” he said. “If you persist, I will allow these men to continue and in the end you will tell me everything I want to know. No man can resist torture forever. I know this because I have conducted such sessions many times. In the end you will tell your most secret things. You will betray all your friends and your country because it will be the only way to end your suffering. If I ask, you will even betray your mother and offer me your wife just so it stops. Think about this, because the next time I turn these men on you there will be no end to it.”

The American focused his gaze on Khariza’s face. He worked his jaw painfully, finding it difficult to speak because it had been pushed out of its sockets.

“I know…about the bombs…we’ll stop you…I passed on the details…people know…”

Khariza barely managed to hold himself back from striking the American. He stared at the beaten figure on the dirty floor, lying in his own blood, and felt anger rage through him. He exhaled forcibly, pushing himself upright. He pointed at the iron ring set in the wall.

“Bind him to that ring. I want him on his feet. Keep him alive but make certain he is uncomfortable. Do what you need to make him speak. I will come back later.”

Khariza turned to leave the room. Behind him he could hear the American moan as he was dragged to his feet. The Iraqi stepped outside, turned his face to the sky and breathed in cold air.

Was it true? Had the agent found out about the nuclear devices? If so, where had his information come from? Someone within Khariza’s own organization perhaps?

More problems to add to those already plaguing him. Khariza shook his head.

What had he done to deserve such punishment? Was this God’s way of testing his faith?

He though about his final strike. The single, most powerful statement Khariza could make. It was to be the make-or-break operation in his bid to regain control over Iraq. If it failed—if he failed—then what followed wouldn’t only resolve many matters, but would reduce Baghdad and areas of Iraq to a wasteland.

It was to be the final word.

If he, Razan Khariza, was pushed to the limit, his retaliation would echo throughout the region. No, it would be heard all around the world, and America would be left with the bloody destruction of a nation on its hands.

DUSHINOV GLANCED up as Khariza entered the stone house being used as their headquarters. The Chechen rebel watched as Khariza crossed to join him by the log fire burning in the open hearth.

“Drink?” Dushinov asked.

He raised the bottle of locally brewed alcohol. Khariza helped himself to a mug of the dark tea brewing in a smoke-blackened pot. Dushinov, grinning, added some of the alcohol.

“So?”

Khariza drank before he spoke. “He hasn’t said anything yet except for…”

“Except for?”

“He claims to know about the nuclear devices.”

Dushinov grunted. He took a long swallow from the bottle. “Interesting. If he does, you need to consider who led him to this information.”

“That has already crossed my mind. I will contact my people and have them do some checking. Maybe we have a traitor in our ranks.”

“Do you think this American knows what you intend to do with the bombs?”

Khariza shrugged. “I do not know. But we will find out.”

“It will help to pass the time.”

The Iraqi stared into the flames, his attention wandering for a time. Dushinov sat, drinking, watching the man and wondering what was going through Khariza’s mind.

“You have one irritating fault, my friend,” he finally said.

“That is?”

“You think too much. It’s a mistake to keep going over everything. Create your plan, decide how to make it work, carry it through. Simple. It works for me. Once I make my decision, I send it off and sit down to have a drink. You should try it.”

The door opened and Abdul Wafiq entered. He spotted Khariza and went to stand beside him.

“We have had a communication from our people back home. They are asking when the next shipment of weapons is going to arrive.”

“Tell them to contact the Syrian base. I had confirmation the weapons were delivered two days ago. We have to be careful. The Americans are concentrating on the border area heavily now. There are patrols. Air surveillance. We have to alter the routes and will only be able to move small consignments for the present.”

“They have asked about air-drops. I told them that would be difficult with the Americans and British maintaining patrols.”

“I understand their frustration, Abdul, but we have to proceed with caution. We are not in a position to mount a large-scale assault. Our brothers must understand this. Impatience will not serve us in the long run. As long as we continue our isolated attacks, we will still achieve results. Over time, even the Americans will begin to feel the pain we cause. With all their might and their superior firepower they cannot defeat a mobile hit-and-run force. We can deliver telling punishment and be gone before they can find us. Remember this. We are fighting on our own ground. We know the country well, better than they ever will. We have a thousand places to hide. We have support. And we have the will to continue as long as it takes.”

Wafiq turned to leave.

“Wait. One more thing. We may have an informer in our group. This American appears to have some knowledge about the nuclear devices. Have an investigation carried out, but make certain it is done carefully. Use only those people you can trust fully. If there is a traitor, it will do no good to alert him. You understand?”

Wafiq nodded and left.

“I must go to the training area to see how the volunteers are coming along,” Khariza said, voicing his thoughts.

“It won’t do any harm,” Dushinov agreed. “Tell them they are important to the cause. That they are going to make a valuable contribution.”

“They are helping to shape Iraq’s future.”

“That sounds a little cynical considering your final solution. It’s not as if they know about that.” Dushinov raised his bottle, teeth showing in a wide smile. “But tell them how important they are anyway.”

“Be honest, Zoltan. Am I being rash? Going too far with this nuclear blackmail? Will it even work?”

“My mistake was not putting enough of this in your tea,” Dushinov said, waving the bottle in Khariza’s face. “Here, have some more.” The rebel leader topped up Khariza’s mug.

“We live in changing times,” he continued. “To achieve what we desire means taking chances. Ignoring all the rules and challenging the way things are. We can’t do that without drastic measures. If we sit around and bleat like mangy goats, nothing will change. Only we can do that. If it takes a nuclear bomb to make the Americans realize they will never be masters of Iraq, then so be it, my friend.”

“Would you do such a thing?”

“If it was guaranteed to piss off the Russians, I would press the button myself. Ah, listen to me, Razan. In the end you have only yourself to satisfy. I love my country as you love Iraq. The last thing I would want would be the Americans tramping all over it. Telling me what to do. All they want is to get their hands on the oilfields. Under their control. To put Iraq under their boots and bleed the country dry. They don’t care about Iraqi freedom, only U.S. wealth and power. Deny them their oil and see how long they stay then.”

KHARIZA’S INSTRUCTOR was a broad, giant of a man called Bertran. He was a mercenary. French-born, he had served in Algeria, but now sold his expertise for a price. A high price because he was good. Khariza had used the man before, in Iraq, to train his own combat squads. Bertran didn’t care about religion or politics. He liked his work and the rewards it brought.

He was putting the group through their paces when Khariza arrived. When he recognized his visitor, Bertran put one of the men in charge and made his way over to where Khariza was climbing from the battered Toyota pickup.

“How are they doing?”

Bertran glanced back at the group. “When they leave here they will know everything there is to know about the AK-47, how to set explosives, the best way to kill a man without making a noise. What I can’t give them is experience.”

“We all have to go through our first taste of combat. Didn’t you?”

“I was born ready for it,” Bertran said, smiling. “Razan, this is not going to be an easy campaign. You understand what you are going to be facing?”

“And what is that?”

“The most powerful military machine the world has ever known. From a country with so much wealth and material it can sustain this for years.”