Warning Order (18 page)

“Are you familiar with Pandora?”

“The online radio program?”

“No, the myth.”

“Sure, she was the girl that opened the box and let all the evil into the world.”

“I see they are still teaching the classics at West Point,” the spy said with a smile. He lifted the boiling water off the stove and poured it over the grounds.

“Wasn't my best subject, but I did okay.”

“That computer is my Pandora's box. There are things stored in there that should never see the light of day.”

“Fine, so your box told you that Vann was going to authorize a mission into Syria, seven months before it happened, and that someone was going to use an Iraqi that no one has heard about to kill one of our operatives?”

“No, but it did tell me who had any connection to the Anvil Program.”

Brantley reared back in his chair, causing the legs to creak against the tile floor. “Vann was in on that shit show?”

“Yes and no, but the main point here is, your boss craves power. You put someone like that in the right circles, and he will do whatever it takes to ensure he never lets go off the brass ring.”

“I'll buy that.”

“There are people within the government who will never forget being forced to leave Iraq early. When Barnes was allowed to go into Syria, it wasn't just to start another war. It was a stepping-stone to a much bigger goal.”

Brantley scoffed at this notion. “Iraq's over, and there is no way we are ever going back.”

“That's where you're wrong,” David said, pressing the coffee and pouring it into two cups. He placed the cups on the waiting saucers and carried them back to the table, careful not to spill.

“When Boland was picked up in Syria, no one knew a thing,” he went on. “There were no records that he'd been sent on a mission, and no mention of what he was carrying across the border. Someone very high up wanted it that way, and I knew that it was more than a coincidence that he worked for General Vann.”

“So it was all a setup, is that what you're saying? An American general sent one of his men into a rebel stronghold, with a very sensitive piece of equipment, and wanted it to be taken by a rebel leader?”

“Exactly.”

Brantley waved a hand over his cup to cool down the coffee. “I'm sorry, David, but I'm not buying it. He did all of that so we can go back to Iraq?”

“Just wait—there is more to come. I just don't know what it is.” He added in an undertone, “But I'm going to find out. That's why I have to go to Washington.”

A
l Qatar stared at the memory card he was holding. For a moment, it transported him back to the day the Americans had murdered his brother.

He could still remember his brother handing it to him and telling him to protect it with his life—a moment before Boland burst into the room and shot him in the face. That moment had started him down this path, and now that he was getting closer to his revenge, it seemed so surreal.

The Iranian in the seat next to him coughed, rudely yanking the jihadist from his painful memories.

“Is that it?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Everything that you required has been done,” Khalid said, holding out his hand.

Al Qatar closed his fist around his last connection to a life before war, and then ever so slowly handed it to Khalid. The sentimental moment had passed, and he was all business.

“Tell me about the mines.”

“They are really very simple. My government knows that one day they must face the Americans, and our engineers have been working for the last fifteen years on how to sink one of their carriers. We have used small boats to get close, practiced shooting swarms of rockets, but to no avail.”

“So, will this device work?”

“Oh yes. The answer, we found, was so very simple,” Khalid said. “A very powerful mine was developed using depleted uranium that will cut through the bottom of the carrier like knife through a man's flesh.”

“What is to keep them from seeing the mine?” al Qatar asked skeptically.

“We developed sensors to pick up specific frequencies: in this case the cavitations of the carrier's propellers. When the mines are emplaced, the sensors go active and wait until they pick up the target. Once the frequency is locked, the mine is released, and it follows the signal to the source. Quite simple, really.”

“And they are powerful enough?”

“The charge is shaped to cut right through the hull. Are you familiar with explosive-formed projectiles?”

“Yes, like the IEDs you gave the jihadists in Iraq?”

“Precisely. A thin sheet of metal is placed over the explosives, and when the bomb goes off, a jet of metal cuts through the armor. In this specific case, once the metal has penetrated the hull, a second charge sends the explosives up into the breach, where it detonates.”

“My many thanks,” al Qatar said with a humble bow of his head.

“You know, they will hunt you to the ends of the earth for this.”

“That is for Allah to decide. I am but an instrument of his will.”

The Iranian smiled, slipping the memory stick into his pocket. Then he placed his hand on al Qatar's shoulder.

“You are a brave man, and it has been my honor to work with you, but there is just one final thing, and then our deal is finished.”

“Ahh, the name.”

“Yes.”

Al Qatar knew that he was making a deal with the devil when he had been introduced to Khalid al Hamas, but at the same time, he didn't have much of a choice. Killing a few Americans, while helping a bunch of zealots set up their own state, was one thing, but dealing a crippling blow to the Americans required an infrastructure he didn't have.

He knew that what Khalid was really after was his source. A man that high up, who was willing to betray his country, was worth way more than anything Khalid had given him.

“I still have need of this man,” al Qatar said.

“And you shall have it, but you must give me the name—that was our deal. I must be able to protect myself when they find out the part my country played in this upcoming catastrophe.”

“How do I know you will keep your word?”

“It is up to you, but without this”—Khalid held up a phone-like device—“the mines are useless to you.”

Al Qatar knew he had no choice. Plus, in a few days, he would no longer need the man who had been feeding him information.

“His name is General Patrick Vann.”

“The deputy director of the DIA?” the Iranian asked with a huge smile.

“Yes.”

“By Allah, your reputation is well earned, my friend,” he said, slapping the Iraqi on the back. “My people will be very pleased to learn this. Very pleased indeed.”

“You might just get another house in the hills.”

Khalid's smile froze on his face. Al Qatar knew he must be wondering how he knew of the gift he had received from the ayatollah.

“Yes, I know all about your houses and cars, and even where your son goes to school,” he added.

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, I am just letting you know that even though our dealings are finished, I will be keeping a very close eye on what you do. Do not make the mistake of meddling in my affairs before it is time.”

“I have no wish to ever cross you. I give you my word on that.”

“Now give me the detonator.”

The Iranian handed the device to the Iraqi but couldn't help asking just one question before he left: “What is on the drive? I was never told.”

“My friend, do you think Sadaam would move all of his WMDs without keeping a list of where they went?” he said with a wink.

  •  •  •  

Al Qatar started the car and headed down the block before turning down an alley and heading north. He drove for ten minutes and then beeped his horn outside an ancient warehouse that still bore the scars of the American invasion.

Once his men opened the massive bay door, he drove the car inside and turned it off. Before getting out, he dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number from memory. The phone rang twice before his handler answered.

“Is it done?”

“Yes, he just left.”

“Did you give him the name?”

“I did,” replied al Qatar. “He bought it.”

“Good. Is everything in place?”

“Yes, just send me the time.”

“I will.”

C
aptain Chris Miller stood on the bridge, cautiously scanning the Iranian gunboat loitering a few miles off the bow. Every so often, he took his eyes from the binoculars and studied the helmsmen, who had a death grip on the massive wheel, guiding the Nimitz-class supercarrier into the inbound clearway.

The Strait of Hormuz, only twenty-one miles wide, was the gateway for 20 percent of the world's oil. Due to the strait's narrowness, the International Maritime Organization had established inbound and outbound lanes of travel for any ship entering or leaving the Persian Gulf.

Tims had been through the Strait of Hormuz many times, but this was his first at the helm of the USS
George H. W. Bush
, and the last thing he needed was some Iranian captain trying to dick him around.

During his time as a naval aviator, he had played chicken with Russian MiGs over the North Sea, but at 1,092 feet in length, the
George Bush
was a hell of a lot less maneuverable. It was well known that Iranian naval officers liked to act like assholes whenever a naval battle group entered the Persian Gulf, and Miller knew that without protection from the other ships, the carrier made an inviting target.

“Wouldn't you just love to blow his ass out of the water?” his XO—executive officer—asked, handing him a steaming cup of coffee.

Miller lowered the binos to his chest, and he could feel the leather strap biting into the back of his tan neck as he reached for the mug.

Born in Rhode Island, he came from a generation of navy men, and his grandfather had actually flown with George H. W. Bush during World War II. The navy was in Miller's blood, and he'd known that he wanted to be an aviator before he was even out of elementary school.

“Back during the first Gulf War, I almost got a MiG-29 right around here,” he said, his pale blue eyes smiling as he took a sip of the coffee. “It's funny how everything comes full circle.”

“What do you mean, Cap'n?”

“This is my last cruise. The last time through the strait and the last time I have to deal with assholes like that,” he said, motioning to the gunboat with the mug that had his name emblazoned on it in gold script. “Seems like everything changes but stays the same over here.”

“We're going to miss you, sir.”

Miller was known as a fair skipper who took care of his men, as long as they took care of his boat. His true passion was still flying, though, and he knew he was going to miss being in the air most of all.

“I'll miss you guys too. Not really sure what I'm gonna do. Hell, the navy's all I've known since Annapolis.”

“Well, sir, I'm sure you'll think of something.”

“You're probably right.”

He was taking another sip when he felt a tremor run from the deck up through his legs. “What the hell?” he said, stumbling as a tearing sound screeched up from bowels of the ship, knocking him off balance.

Alarm bells sounded in the tight confines of the bridge as the lights flicked off for a second—before the backup generator managed to come online.

“Captain, the hull has been breached!” one of the sailors yelled as the general quarters alarm rang out over the ship's PA. Officers and enlisted men began rushing to their stations.

“What did we hit?”

“Sir—”

The ship reared up in the water as massive overpressure ripped through the bulkheads and blasted upward through the decks. It felt like an earthquake, and as the huge carrier settled back onto the surface of the water, a massive tidal wave washed over the deck.

On the bridge, sensors warned that the two A4W nuclear reactors had been breached, and Miller could hear the screams coming from the engine room that told him that his men were being boiled alive. Seawater poured through the massive breach, quickly overwhelming the ship's ability to contain the damage. A second explosion tore another hole in the bottom of the
George Bush
, and the carrier began to list to the side.

Nine levels below the bridge, Chief Petty Officer Jim Brands was slammed against the floor. The box of fuses he'd been inventorying was sent flying across the heavily reinforced room. All around him pallets of five-hundred-pound BLU-111 bombs rattled against their chains.

As he rose to his feet, he could feel blood dripping from his forehead. “Secure those fuses!” he shouted a second before a huge ball of flame blasted the door off the primary bomb-assembling magazine and rushed into the room.

His Nomex uniform burst into flames. The wall of flame melted the nozzles of the fire-suppression system, and the intense heat licked across the bombs, causing them to bubble.

The fuses were the first to explode, and a second later, the room evaporated in a blinding flash, gutting the hull as blue-and-white flames snaked topside in search of oxygen.

  •  •  •  

Two miles above the USS
George Bush
, Ensign Benjamin “Poppy” Speltz saw a flash of light off to his left. He looked out the side of his cockpit in time to see the first explosion rip through the flight deck of the carrier.

“Holy shit, what the hell was that?” he asked as he banked the F-18 Super Hornet into a tight left turn to get a better look.

“The ship is on fire,” his wingman said in disbelief.

Flames were cascading out of the hangar bay, and he was forced to cover his eyes when the fuel depot exploded, ripping the deck in half. A column of black smoke rushed skyward, reminding him of the videos he'd seen of Pearl Harbor. The net came alive with chatter.