“My main concern is the trail we are leaving. We were exposed with Operon, and we must be sure to end our reliance on former elements of Gunn International.”
Patrick Rout nodded. “I understand, sir. It was extremely convenient in the beginning, but its exposure required the hard-to-anticipate breach of the arms network itself, which is something we will continue to have to rely on.”
“I understand the rationale, but the CIA's efforts have shown us the flaw in that reliance, and we must make sure we are completely detached from any such elements in the future.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The use of the modified cargo plane?”
“We have recruited well. The engineers did a remarkable job in bringing significant stealth technology to the aircraft. I have seen it tested — in flight — and it works beautifully. It's too bulky to be invisible on radar, but the signal will be low. If they don't know precisely where to look, they won't see us.”
Gunn paused and gazed out over the field of grass. They were so close, and everything had gone according to plan. The nations had reacted with even more panic and fervor than he had anticipated, practically ensuring complete chaos and war after this mission. The final phase of their grand plan was in motion. Soon the Western armies would once again flow into the Middle East, and the Hammer would strike the Arab nations soundly at their most sensitive point. A new era would begin. William Gunn needed to make sure nothing got in the way.
“Perhaps it is time to take a new tack in New York.”
“Sir?”
“Our efforts have been unsuccessful.”
Rout stiffened. “We are nearly ready to strike hard, Mr. Gunn, as planned. Changing the operation now, I believe, is a mistake.”
Gunn shook his head. “I don't mean overall. I refer to Savas. He has proven very elusive. Perhaps a more indirect course is required.”
“Indirect, sir?”
“We are fairly sure now that there is a relationship between him and the Cohen woman. Our recon supports this conclusion strongly.”
“Yes, sir. She will be targeted for elimination.”
“I believe this to be a mistake. With her death, we risk granting him tremendous motivating force. However, were we to take her alive, she would become a powerful deterrent to his continual involvement in their investigation.”
“Perhaps.”
Gunn remembered painfully the last time he had seen his wife. “I know something about the man. He will not wish to lose someone else in his life that he cares for. Bring her here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Precautions, no more. They are not close to us in any significant fashion. But they are the closest anyone has gotten. Very soon it will not matter what they or anyone else does. The world will be far busier trying to contain the spreading fire.”
51
Dr. Anthony Russell entered his office at 8:30 a.m., precisely. If asked, he would have said that he was a classic obsessive-compulsive personality, kept in check by therapy and occasional medication, and that such business was his own, thanks very much. Not a single item in the room could have been described as dusty, out of place, or in need of repair. The blinds had been cleaned for the third time that month only yesterday. The air filter systems were regularly replaced. The carpet needed looking at — he would see to that later today.
Whatever his idiosyncrasies, Dr. Russell was a highly respected figure in psychiatry at Fort Marshall, and, in fact, among all of Army medicine. His attention to detail was exactly what was required in observing patients, as well as in prescribing medications and monitoring their effects. But what made Dr. Russell truly stand out was that he just plain cared about US soldiers more than anyone else did.
In the early 1990s, he had begun several unique studies to examine the psychological trauma and syndromes afflicting veterans of the first Persian Gulf War. What he had learned there had been invaluable, if insufficient, for treatment of the far more terrible trauma soldiers faced after the Iraq War. A combination of multiple tours of duty, guerrilla warfare with terrorist tactics, and shoddy commitment to veteran care post-duty had left one of the most damaged generations of US military personnel since — well, since as long as he could remember, and that included Vietnam.
These things made Anthony Russell angry, but he was far too composed — some might say uptight — a person to ever voice such anger in a conventional manner. As the third generation of men in the Russell family to serve proudly, his loyalty to the military was absolute. That which he could not speak up about he sought to address through his work. This partially explained the mountain of effort, the numerous programs and studies for veterans that came from his initiative. He hoped in the end, he might make a difference.
He placed his briefcase in its precise location on the desk, wiped the computer screen with a dust cloth, and switched it on. First task in the morning was e-mail, and there was usually lots of it. He scrolled through the lists — so many invitations for speaking engagements, pharmaceutical company offers that he knew amounted to little more than bribes for their products, and the occasional penis enlargement advertisement that slipped through spam filters. How creative they could be with spelling, he thought.
Near the end of the list, an e-mail caught his eye. It took him several seconds to place the name and account — Michael Inherp. He had not heard from the boy since he had left therapy several years ago, simply disappearing, never giving explanation or motive or plans for his future. This had disturbed Dr. Russell. It was certainly a rash thing to do. Inherp had served two tours in Iraq, during which he had seen an IED turn his best friend inside out, stood by as a group of crazed soldiers sodomized a young Iraqi teen, and hidden his sexuality from the men around him who constituted his closest family during those traumatic periods. He was not accepted at home — gay men were still beaten in some parts of the country. All these things were very hard on a man who loved his country, who signed up to fight for it after 9/11. Where was the boy now?
He opened the e-mail and scanned the contents. As he read, his face constricted, his eyes squinting even behind his glasses, as if he wondered whether he was reading the text correctly. Finally, he took his glasses off and rested them precisely on his desk, rubbing his eyes. He stared out into the space of his office for several silent moments, recalling the text of the e-mail.
Dear Dr. Russell,
I don't have much time, and it is important that you believe me. Several years ago, I joined the organization known as Mjolnir. I know you have read about them. They promised me a chance to protect America in a way the Army could never do. They have been smart, not like what we've wasted our money and blood for in Iraq, sir. They want to destroy our enemies.
At first I believed, along with them. But something has happened that has changed that. It's important that you believe me. They are planning something terrible. They plan to use a stolen weapon, not conventional, in their next attack. I've seen it. It's real. I've attached photographs of the missile and the serial number.
Please, you have to believe me. Show this to Army Command. To someone. Anyone. I'll do what I can, but I'm only one person. They are serious. They will do this. I don't know where or when, but it's a Muslim target, like all the others.