Shepherd One (5 page)

“Clear.” The call came from the primary hazmat officer who
maintained constant communication with his team through a lip mike to the
site’s Comm Center, which was a cube van parked beyond the perimeter lights.

Abraham moved forward, as did the principals from the NSA
and the Mexican National Security and Investigation Center, with each man
gravitating toward the case from all points of the perimeter.

Passing the bodies of the dead Arabs without so much as a
glance, the officials circled the device and studied its contents. In the light
the burnished spheres lined side by side beneath the Plexiglas shield gleamed
imposingly.

“As you can see,” said Valente DeMora-Cuesta, a top-ranking
official from the Mexican National Security and Investigation Center, also known as Cisen, waved his hand back and forth to prove a point, “this is Mexican
territory.” The man was truly Napoleonic and short, his demeanor radiating a
cocky arrogance, in which he forced the importance of his position by reminding
the Americans that on Mexican soil he was the primary official. They weren’t
buying it, however, even when DeMora-Cuesta tried to force the issue in perfect
English that a challenge would be met if they contested his decisions. “This
weapon belongs to the Mexican Government and will be appropriated in the name
of Mexico.”

Abraham chortled. “Yeah, right. Whatever.” The American
border was less than sixty meters away.

DeMora-Cuesta’s arrogant vein never subsided. “Need I remind
you that you are on Mexican territory, a sovereign country?”

“Your territory has become a sieve allowing such things to
happen to our nation. We need this device to learn how to dismantle it safely,
in case others have gotten onto American territory. We need to track its point
of origin and find the core group that’s marketing nuclear weapons.”

“Not our problem,” he commented. And then in Spanish, barked
a command to his team to gather the weapon.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Abraham.

“What you want on Mexican territory matters little to me.”

As DeMora-Cuesta’s team neared the aluminum case John
Abraham nodded to the NSA principal, who whispered something into his lip mike.
Within moments, personnel wearing black body armor, helmets and face shields
advanced from the perimeter line manning assault weapons with attached laser
scopes, the crimson lines crossing the distance between them and the Cisen team
as multiple red dots from their scopes settled on the center of DeMora-Cuesta’s
body mass. Within seconds the members of the Cisen team were pinned in the
crosshairs of two dozen elite soldiers.

“You wouldn’t dare,” said DeMora-Cuesta.

“We can do this one of two ways,” said Abraham. “We can
either do this my way . . . Or we can do this my way. You decide.” 

DeMora-Cuesta scanned the area; totally surrounded, the
commandos drawing a bead. “To raise a weapon against Mexican officials is an
obvious violation of the covenant between the United States and Mexico. Our government will certainly file a grievance with your government. And you, Mr.
Abraham, along with everyone here, will be named.”

“I don’t think our government gives a rat’s ass, since
they’re the ones who sent us here with the objective of acquiring this device
in the first place.”

DeMora-Cuesta reluctantly conceded, bowing out of the circle
of officials and motioning to his team to follow him beyond the lit perimeter.
There was no doubt in Abraham’s mind that he was going to call for backup. It
was an easy read.

The NSA official chortled. “I like your style, Abraham. You
should become one of us.”

“I’m very happy where I am,” he answered.

“Yeah, well—I should contact headquarters since our friend
here is obviously on his way to call in a detachment to counter our strike
team. This could be fun.” And then he was gone, heading for the Comm Center.

Abraham watched the Cisen group exit the area before leaning
over the device and noting the three spheres, the computer boards, and the two
phallic cylinders opposing one another with their tapered points less than an
inch apart. Probably the strike pins, he considered.

His next business of conduct was to examine the bodies. The
Arabs he noted were clean shaven, an indicator they were preparing themselves
for death by cleansing the body before entry—a martyr’s belief. It was also a
learned pointer he was trained to look out for while coming up through the
ranks of the Bureau working in counterterrorism. 

Ignoring the Arab who had his facial identity erased after
being struck by the impact of the bullet from an assault rifle, Abraham left
the area as NSA associates quickly prepped the case for safe travel to Area 4
of the Nevada Test Site.

CHAPTER SIX

Washington
, D.C.

0400 Hours

The moment President Burroughs was
informed of a ‘Dante Package’ being discovered along the Mexican-American
border, he wasted no time in calling Mexican President Cesar Munoz to issue a
claim on the device, regardless of whether or not it was perceived to be
several meters south of the actual borderline, which put it in Mexican
territory. There were no discussions, debates, or negotiations. President
Burroughs was holding firm on this matter, and was not about to concede since America’s safety was optimum.

Within moments President Munoz relented, promising to
withdraw his Cisen team from the area in the interest of maintaining strong
political ties with the United States. His commitment, however, came after the
president strongly indicated that his contingent team of commandos would use
whatever force necessary to appropriate the item.

Point made!

Within ten minutes after the call ended with the Mexican
president, President James Burroughs duly invited his leading team of advisors,
which included Chief National Security Advisor Alan Thornton, CIA Director Doug Craner, Secretary of State Janet Dommers, Vice President John Phippen, and
Secretary of Defense Michael Duarte for a high-priority session inside the Oval
Office. Although the sun had yet to show on the horizon, everybody at least appeared
fresh for the coming day.

On most mornings President Burroughs was an affable and
spirited man, always smiling and quick with a joke. But this morning he
appeared aged and less engaging with lips pressed in a tight expression and his
eyes markedly deep with concern. After learning of an Arab task force trying to
maneuver a nuclear weapon onto American territory, his demeanor quickly took on
a mask of worry as if the weapon’s discovery accelerated his aging process at
an exponential rate, the skin beneath his eyes hanging with droopy folds.

“Thank you for coming in at such an early hour,” he said.
“FBI Director Larry Johnson and NSA Director Davis Means will join us later by
speaker phone, once they learn if the item found along the Arizona-Mexico
border is real. But at this time it appears to be a nuclear device.”

He turned to Alan Thornton, a chief ally he relied heavily upon
when it came to sound direction. “Al, your assessment from the preliminary
reports, please.”

Alan Thornton was a man of bookish appearance who wore
outdated suits and believed his bad comb-over was good enough to belie the fact
that he was balding. Whenever he sat down he did so with aristocratic posture
where his spine remained rigidly straight and his chin raised in haughty
manner. And when he spoke he did so with a powerful voice. “According to our
sources,” he said, “it appears that the device is a workable unit armed by the
transference of codes from an independent source, such as the BlackBerry found
at the scene.”

“Is it Russian made?”

“The early assumption, Mr. President, is yes, we believe so.
The Cold War versions are antiquated to what we consider the backpack version,
a cylindrical component roughly the size and shape of a five-gallon drum. But
this unit is state-of-the-art, something never seen before, not even by our own
intelligence agencies. So the question is this, do the Russians have the
capability to cannibalize from the old units to create something new, compact
and far more deadly? And right now, Mr. President, the answer is yes. Or at
least it appears so.”

The president faced Doug Craner, the leading principal of
the CIA who was responsible for monitoring insurgent activities abroad. “And
what’s your account, Doug?”

Craner was old-school military whose roots went beyond
twenty years and whose service was invaluable as a Marine. His flattop was
cropped to specs and the clipped tone of his voice was evident that habits were
hard to relinquish. Even now, nineteen years retired from the ranks, Doug
Craner continued to air something stoically martial about him. “Of course we know
of the Cold War versions, Mr. President, but this package is something unique.
The word from intel is that a Russian by the name of Yorgi Perchenko, a former
KGB chief who ended up as the assistant director of Directorate S at the end of
the Cold War, and summarily dismissed due to his refusal to change his
hard-lined views for new alternatives, may be indirectly responsible.” He then
handed the president an 8x10 black-and-white glossy photo of an aged male with
salt-and-pepper hair. The collar of his jacket was hiked against the cold with the
fabric covering the man’s lower jaw, but not enough to cover his face.

“I remember him,” the president said lightly, placing the
photo down. While serving as a statesman in the Senate, Burroughs kept a
watchful eye toward the Eastern Bloc when the Berlin Wall fell and communism
collapsed. But during that time Perchenko’s name kept coming up as a stolid
hardliner who constantly voiced his opinion to the elitists in the Russian
parliament that resistance was to be met with brutal force for the sake of
self-preservation, not with the totality of surrender. His recompense for his
verbal barrages was a quick reassignment to the Directorate S, where he did a
brief stint before disappearing altogether.

It was a name he had not heard until now. 

“We believe,” said Craner, “prior to Perchenko’s assignment
to the Directorate S, that he had accessibility to the military-based storage
units and absconded with the antiquated versions during the confusion at the
time of the Soviet Union’s fall. We know for a fact that some portable versions
have gone unaccounted for, and Perchenko maybe the reason why.”

“But why now?  Why would Perchenko retaliate against
American sovereignty more than twenty years after the fall?”

“He’s not,” said Thornton.

Craner nodded. “We believe Perchenko has developed a more
sophisticated weapon by cannibalizing parts from the Cold War versions, and is
now proposing them on the black market to the highest bidder. At this time
we’re trying to verify this information.”

The president fell back in his chair, his jaw muscles
working out the growing tension. “And the highest bidders, in Perchenko’s black
market sale, were the Arabs at the border.”

“It appears that way. Right now we’re looking for a money
trail.”

The president nodded his disgust. “For a person to sell such
a weapon on the black market is incredibly irresponsible and undeniably lacking
in reason and conscience, which makes Perchenko a very dangerous man.  And such
men do not deserve the right to walk this planet.” 

After a moment of tense silence, the president offered an
inquiry in a tone suggesting forced calm. “Tell me about the weapon found at
the site.” 

Secretary of Defense Michael Draewhite proffered a faxed
photo taken at the scene. “When NSA opened the lid they discovered that the
case was lined with a thin layer of lead to act as a marginal shield. The
essential parts of the unit, as Doug mentioned, were cannibalized, but only to
a degree.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The workings within the case, Mr. President, are basically
computerized components manufactured with microchips, processing boards—things
that didn’t exist during the Cold War. What is the same, however, are the three
spheres inside, units I believe were taken from the Cold War versions and
reassembled to what you see there.”

“And the spheres are what exactly?”

Draewhite didn’t pull any punches. “They are the crucibles
that provide the ignition of an atomic blast.”

President Burroughs continued to examine the faxed photo as
Draewhite continued.

“The Cold War versions possessed only one sphere with the
bulk of the backpack possessing a detonator unit, which consumed a large
capacity of space. Over time those units have been miniaturized to provide more
room. So instead of holding one sphere as the old units did, the new unit is
now capable of holding three, tripling its yield.”

“And how much yield does each sphere contain?”

“A single sphere contains exactly one kiloton.”

President Burroughs closed his eyes. Three kilotons was
approximately one-quarter of the yield that wiped out Hiroshima. 

“And Perchenko may be responsible?” When the president said
this he did so more to himself as if slipping off into reflection, quickly
realizing when the KGB transitioned into the Directorate S, Perchenko’s role as
assistant director was to watch over several departments, one that included
conducting terrorist operations and sabotage in foreign countries. Although he
might not have pulled the trigger, he at least provided the gun. Everything
seemed to fit, at least on the surface.

The president sighed. “What about the men killed at the
site?”

Doug Craner laid a second photo before Burroughs, his finger
pressing it firmly to the desktop for a brief moment as he spoke. “We have
confirmation that all three men were on the FBI watch list. But one in
particular is of extreme interest. This is Khalid Hassan, an Iraqi national who
fought in Iraq before serving with al-Qaeda forces against American troops in Baghdad. His stint was cut short due to being severely wounded. But we believe Hassan is
responsible for the deaths of nearly thirty-seven American troops and
operatives prior to his decommission from battle.”

The president leaned forward, a photo in each hand, a
Russian and an Arab, the man trying to determine the ties that bind them. “So
now I pose this question to you, Doug: In the assessment of the CIA, do you believe the Russians and Arabs to be working together against American interests?”

“All I can say at this point and time, Mr. President, is the
BlackBerry found at the scene is definitely a Russian make with Russian
Cyrillic on the keypad, and in the display window. We even traced the serial
numbers on the processing boards within the unit itself and followed it to a
manufacturing firm in Minsk. But we believe Perchenko is working independently.
I don’t believe the Russian government has a hand in any of this. But again,
we’re looking at all angles at this time and dismissing none. On the surface it
looks like the Arabs were working strictly with an independent agent.” 

The president gingerly laid the photos on the desktop. “Upon
further assessment, do you believe a terrorist faction succeeded in getting a
unit across the border?”

Craner’s demeanor became less hardened. “Yes, sir, I do.
Cells work independently from one another in case one gets caught so others can
succeed. There’s no doubt in my mind they achieved the means by slipping at
least one unit onto American soil.”

The president’s voice remained inquisitively impassive. “And
maybe more?”

Craner nodded. “Yes, sir. But how many more is unknown at
this time.” 

Burroughs tented his fingers and bounced them off the base
of his chin, his mind working, the tapping steady and metered like the needle
of a metronome. And then, “I’m going to call the Russian president and hold him
indirectly responsible for what has happened,” he said. “Of course he’ll deny
everything and shove my words back down my throat, but the moment I get off the
phone you know he’ll be in contact with all his resources to confirm if what I
said is true.  I want all our intelligence resources up and running. I want
every one of our agencies intercepting everything the Russians are throwing
across their airwaves regarding Perchenko. I want to know how many weapons this
man sold to the insurgents. And I definitely want to make one thing very clear—and
this specifically pertains to you, Doug, and whatever coverts we have in Russia. I want Perchenko found and terminated the moment we confirm the amount of weapons
sold and displaced on American soil. And I want all of you to understand—and I
think all of you do understand—that our backs are pressing hard against the
wall right now. All I’m asking you to do as the elite team I picked you for is
to give me your absolute best. Have I made myself very, very clear?”

There was a group murmur that sounded more like a chorus of
drunken slurs. 

“Then let’s get moving, people. I need to know where those
weapons are.” 

#

Washington
D.C.

0630 Hours Eastern Standard Time

President Burroughs was true to his
word when he stated he would call the president of Russia and proffer threats
and ultimatums, knowing full well they would be nothing more than idle bullying
that were, of course, met by the political macho posturing of his Russian
counterpart. However, the response he needed by the Russian principals to
better serve his needs was for them to trigger all inquiries within their own
administration, which were duly intercepted under the close scrutiny of
American espionage and ingenuity.

Russian agencies quickly colluded with one another in the
subsequent aftermath, making Perchenko the hot topic of the day. Suddenly there
were explorations into his life such as to what was he doing? What was his
activity in respect to established bank accounts since his departure from the
Directorate S? And then there were further inquiries regarding Yorgi
Perchenko’s black marketing schemes and alleged activities. But foremost they
wanted to know where Perchenko was, which placed him within the crosshairs for
removal long before American intelligence had the opportunity to find him
first. Either way, Yorgi Perchenko had become a marked man.

And this pleased the president to no end. He had
accomplished his goal.