“We’re all going for a ride now,” shouted Chern. He gestured to his men that they take the pilot, mechanic, and cowboy owner into the plane.
Briggs lifted his rifle.
As did Fisher.
Freeing the hostages would require three perfectly timed and placed shots. Even the slightest miscalculation might allow one of Chern’s men to reflexively pull his trigger and kill his hostage.
Fisher hoped that any lingering doubts Briggs might’ve had were already put to bed—because he was taking two shots while Fisher took one, focusing all of his attention on the dark-haired Russian clutching the cowboy.
Meanwhile, Paladin’s pilot was steering the C-17 toward the taxiway with the intent of parking the plane between the two exits, creating a 585,000-pound roadblock.
If for some reason, Paladin had been late or the operation on the ground had gone south and the Russians had managed to get near their jet, Fisher had a pair of EMP grenades tucked into one of his belt pouches. Destroying the electronics of an expensive jet was hardly a consideration when it came to matters of national security, but if they could save the taxpayers a hefty repayment to the cowboy they would. Besides, having the C-17 on the ground would allow them to make a hasty exit with their high-value target. Fisher couldn’t wait to see the look on Chern’s face when he was reunited with Kasperov. They would all need glasses of vodka for that conversation.
Judging from Paladin’s current position on the runway and the men now moving toward the jet, Fisher assumed that the charter pilot couldn’t get his plane moving in time. The C-17 was coming, and nothing could stop it.
Chern’s party began storming across the tarmac, their gazes still distracted by the Paladin’s approach.
“Come on, Sam, I got a bead,” said Briggs.
“On three,” answered Fisher. He counted down while staring through his night-vision scope, the reticle centered over the Russian’s head as the man walked toward the plane.
Fisher took a deep breath.
Exhaled halfway.
And slowly squeezed the trigger. The hammer strike was, indeed, a surprise, and before the round even left his muzzle, he could tell this was a good shot.
The round struck the Russian’s head, knocking him forward, onto his stomach.
Briggs’s rifle cracked a nanosecond after Fisher’s, and another of Chern’s men took a round just left of his ear and tumbled sideways, away from the mechanic he’d been escorting.
Then, with remarkable precision, Briggs got on his second target as the man was attempting to hit the deck. Chern’s last associate was a handsome blond man with the trendy hairstyle of a Calvin Klein model. Briggs’s round removed a section of the man’s head before he reached the ground.
The old man Chern whirled and seized the pilot, grabbing him in a choke hold and using him to shield himself against Fisher and Briggs.
Chern stole a glance over his shoulder as Paladin’s nose came up behind the tiny charter jet like a white shark casting its massive shadow over the tarmac.
Fisher burst from the gloom with Briggs at his side. They charged toward Chern, who shuffled in retreat, nearing the open door and fold-out stairs.
Briggs shouted for the cowboy and mechanic to get back to the hangar, and they weren’t arguing. Fisher had never seen a man that large run that fast.
Fisher locked his gaze on Chern and shouted in Russian, “Sorry, this flight’s been cancelled!”
“You think glib remarks can save you now?” Chern cried.
Charlie, who now had control of the drone, brought the UAV in tight over Fisher and Chern.
Meanwhile, Briggs had his rifle raised at the Russian, keeping the man’s head in his sights.
The charter pilot was a clean-cut guy in his thirties, probably a young father who looked tense but was smart enough to keep still and offer no resistance, giving Briggs a cleaner line. Still, a sticky shocker to the head was not a good thing, especially for an old man like Chern. Better to free the hostage and target his center of mass with that shocker.
“Stand down,” Fisher ordered as he lifted his hand toward Paladin. “You’re done.”
Chern took a step back toward the jet. “You’re a little man with a big job. And this job is too big for you.”
“Listen to me,” Fisher cried even louder now, his patience gone, his anger working its way into his hands and the vice-like grip he kept on the rifle.
Chern shook his head. “There are no more words!”
Fisher lowered his rifle and took a step closer. “We know who you are. We know what you’ve done. Don’t waste any more of my time with this standoff—because my partner will blow your brains out.”
“He’ll do nothing! You want me for information!”
Fisher smiled. “I don’t need shit from you. Your plan has three stages. We know all about them. We know who your bosses are, and right now President Treskayev is having them all arrested. It’s over!”
Chern muttered something under his breath, his hair beginning to rage in the engine wash, his piercing blue eyes widening with what Fisher assumed would be a sense of defeat but strangely, something else was there. Something unnerving. His gaze was now borderline maniacal, and whatever he had in that briefcase must’ve been hugely important, because he’d taken the pilot with one hand but had never let go of the case.
Abruptly, he shoved the pilot aside, and the man took off running toward the hangar.
“You made the right decision,” Fisher shouted.
Chern clutched the briefcase to his chest and began shaking his head. “We must all make our sacrifices for the motherland.”
Fisher’s mouth fell open.
There was no computer with satellite link inside that briefcase.
No documents associated with the oligarchs’ plan.
No innocent travel arrangements or pornographic magazines or personal hygiene items.
There was, Fisher concluded in that second, only one thing:
A way for Chern to ensure that he was not captured by the enemy and turned for information.
Chern had been prepared all along for that contingency, and his associates had probably had no idea that inside his simple briefcase were blocks of C-4 rigged to a detonator built into the case’s handle.
Chern’s thumb slammed down on a button at the base of that handle.
Fisher turned to Briggs and cried, “Run!”
Grim and Charlie were shouting in their ears, but it was all white noise as Fisher wondered how many steps he could take before the explosion went off.
An even more troubling thought jabbed like a needle: What if Chern wasn’t just committing suicide?
What if he had something much more powerful than C-4 inside that case?
“There is always plan B,” Kasperov had said.
30
THAT Fisher had run past Chern, beneath the charter jet’s nose, and toward Paladin One was a decision born of experience and not an instinctual reaction to fear. An untrained man would’ve unconsciously retreated to the rear, as nature had intended. You back away from danger, not run toward it.
But Fisher knew that sprinting across the tarmac and back toward the hangar would’ve left them unprotected and that the detonation would’ve first shredded them, then set ablaze what was left of their bodies. Having his remains positively identified by an FBI forensics team was not exactly on his bucket list.
As he and Briggs passed beneath the jet, Chern did, indeed, make his sacrifice to the motherland.
The explosion shook the asphalt and kicked the charter jet back toward Paladin One in the first second.
Next came the concussion that swept Fisher and Briggs off their feet and launched them into the air, even as their ears began to ring.
Strangely enough, as Fisher’s b
oots left the ground, his thoughts focused not on the impending doom and promise of physical pain but on identifying the nature of the explosion. And he sure as hell knew the sound of C-4 detonating versus other types of explosions. So there was a moment of relief—a sigh that lasted all of a second in knowing that this was a conventional explosion. This was not one of the famed or, rather, infamous RA-115s, aka “suitcase nukes” identified years ago by GRU defector Stanislav Lunev.
Better still, because the charter plane was taking the brunt of the explosion and they were wearing their Kevlar-weave tac-suits, Fisher thought maybe, just maybe, they might actually survive the blast.
They flew nearly twenty feet before crashing and rolling to the tarmac, the fireballs lifting behind them, the fully fueled charter plane engulfed in the flames.
Lying there, just a few meters away from Paladin One’s forward landing gear, Fisher wanted to stand and signal the pilot to get the hell out—
But there was no need. As if on cue, the plane began backing away from the fires, the engines spinning up as Fisher stole a look back, the world still spinning from his fall, the roaring just a muted bass note behind the high-pitched ringing.
The charter jet had been cut in half just behind the wings, its cockpit blown onto its side, the tail assembly lying askew and licked by orange fires spreading rapidly across the tarmac, fed by severed fuel lines. Puddles of pale yellow fluid swelled around the plane and whooshed into flames.
In the distance, a larger group of charter company personnel stood in the shade of the hangar, gaping at the devastation, a heat haze billowing toward them.
Fisher’s OPSAT was flashing with a message from Grim:
911 called. Feds and fire service on the way! Get back to the plane!
“Briggs!” Fisher could barely hear his own voice.
Briggs said something as he scraped himself off the asphalt. He turned back and proffered a hand to Fisher, who groaned and rose.
Just as he caught his balance, the flames roared more fiercely behind them, and Briggs’s lips moved in a shout that might’ve been, “Plane’s gonna blow!” but all Fisher heard was that steady and deafening hum.
They hauled ass out of there, with first responders’ flashing lights now out on the service road and the on-site fire crew rolling forward in their yellow trucks.
With another hollow burst, the rest of the fuel went up, tearing apart the wings with more tremors and sending sharp-edged pieces of the jet boomeranging in all directions.
Fisher charged toward the C-17’s aft, where the loading ramp was beginning to descend.
Something struck him hard in the back, knocking him flat onto his stomach.
He turned his head, saw a section of one seat lying on the ground beside him. He felt something wet on his right hand. More fuel. He shot up, and seeing Briggs race ahead, he dragged himself forward, stumbling in behind the man.
The pilot was wheeling the plane around, and it was Kobin who, with a line and harness attached to his waist, descended the ramp, ready to haul them aboard.
Looking like a bad actor in a poorly dubbed foreign film, Kobin screamed, cursed, and waved them aboard, a few of his words penetrating the hum in Fisher’s ears.
The smuggler seized Briggs, who turned back and took Fisher’s hand, and they bolted up the ramp, dropping to their knees inside the bay.
Fisher’s hearing was beginning to return, if only a little, and he looked at Kobin, whose mouth was still running a mile a minute. Fisher waved his hand then pointed to his ear. Can’t hear you!
A short stop suddenly knocked them to the right, then the plane began to turn once more. Emergency liftoff time.
Fisher and Briggs stumbled their way out of the bay and collapsed into chairs inside the infirmary.
For a moment, a wave of pins and needles passed through Fisher’s shoulders, working up into his head, and he thought, Well, maybe I’m going to pass out.
He didn’t, and when the light returned to his eyes, Charlie and Grim were there, with Kasperov standing behind them.
“I got it all on video,” said Charlie. “Especially the part where you told him we knew who he was and how Treskayev is going after the oligarchs now.”
“President Caldwell has the video, Sam,” Grim said. “And she’s sending it to Treskayev as more proof.”
Fisher nodded, then glanced over at Briggs, whose lip and nose were bleeding. “You all right?”
Briggs looked at him oddly for a second, then nodded, “Yeah, yeah, okay. Still can’t hear very well.”
“Good.” He faced Grim. “I thought Chern might’ve been their plan B.”
“No, they had a van full of C-4 following the lead truck,” Grim said. They tried to get into the zone after the tractor pulled over, but the FBI picked them up. Don’t have anything definitive yet, but rumor is they might be Iranians.”
“They find the explosives on the trucks?”
“Yeah, but only three of the eight were wired. Still, that would’ve been enough.” Grim faced Kasperov. “The president was right. You saved a lot of people today.”
“And so did he,” Kasperov said, lifting his head toward Fisher.
Fisher rubbed the corners of his eyes. “All right, no more messing with Texas. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Too bad we didn’t get Chern,” Charlie said. “But at least nobody else got hurt, right?”
Fisher rose and slapped a palm on the young man’s shoulder. “You’re right, Charlie. You’re damned right.”
* * *
WITHIN the next hour, the blunt trauma to Fisher’s body began to reveal itself in a patchwork of bruises accompanied by deep aches and pains that had him wincing as he sat down in the control center with Charlie and Grim. Briggs took up a chair behind them; Kasperov had returned to the infirmary.
“I wish I could say it’s over, but it’s not,” Grim began. “That hit Charlie got on Rahmani? It’s good.”
Charlie rapped a knuckle on one of his computer screens, where pictures of cylindrical devices with phone-sized or boom box–sized instruments attached to them were accompanied by cross-section drawings, labels, and text. Caps on the tubes’ ends bore stickers displaying the international radiation symbol. “Remember how Kasperov told us about his work hardening thorium reactor control computers against cyber attack? Well, he does a lot of work with a whole lot of energy companies, especially those who do oil and gas drilling. Obviously they need highly secure networks, and a lot of them geared up big-time after Stuxnet.”
Fisher was familiar with the computer worm known as “Stuxnet,” discovered in June 2010 by VirusBlokAda, an antivirus software vendor headquartered in Belarus. The word stuxnet in Russian meant “will spoil” or “will be extinguished,” but the worm’s name might’ve also come from key file names hidden in the code. The worm penetrated the air-gapped Iranian nuclear processing facility computer network in Natanz via infected thumb drives. Once inside, Stuxnet took command of the Siemens S7 industrial control system. The affected S7 sent false “normal” data to monitors while ordering the uranium-enriching centrifuges to spin at speeds outside their tolerances. Hundreds of centrifuges had been destroyed. Whether or not the United States and Israel had partnered to sabotage Iran’s uranium enrichment program with the worm was, for some, still a point of contention; however, Fisher would neither confirm nor deny any information regarding U.S. involvement. Suffice it to say that Iran’s nuclear efforts in the past decade would have been fast-tracked had their facilities been protected by the kind of software that Kasperov Labs produced.
“Here’s what we’re thinking,” Charlie continued. “And I ran this by Kasperov and he agrees. The oligarchs might’ve gotten an idea from something based on Kasperov’s work.”
“What idea?” asked Fisher.
“One of his clients is a c
ompany called NGP. They’re the world’s supplier of neutron generators for what these guys call neutron porosity oil well logging.” Charlie regarded his computer screen. “That’s what I’ve been looking at here—pics of those generators.”
“What exactly do they do?” asked Briggs.
“Basically, engineers use these suckers to record the composition of the ground around oil wells. And that information is usually classified.”
Fisher nodded. “So how’s our boy Rahmani fit into all this?”
“Six weeks ago NGP shipped a generator to Iran. That’s pretty routine since Iranian engineers are always scouting out new oil fields. It’s the name on the customer’s invoice that blew my mind: Abu Jafar Harawi.”
“One of Rahmani’s known aliases,” Grim added.
“That’s right,” said Fisher. “Unless it’s another guy with the same name?”
“We don’t think so. The Special Activities Division has a contact in Iran, a MOIS agent who flipped. This guy ID’d Rahmani in Iran, and he confirmed that he saw Rahmani two days prior to that shipment. Rahmani was there and he took possession.”
“They’ve got a hundred pounds of enriched uranium, along with a neutron generator,” Fisher began, thinking aloud. “Are they using that generator to help build a bomb?”
Charlie shook his head. “Not help build it, but use it to act as a booster agent.”
“Back up,” said Grim. “I put out a BOLO to all our allies on that NGP shipping crate, and one of Israel’s Mossad agents played a hunch. He took a trip over to Natanz, which you’ll recall is Iran’s premier nuclear enrichment facility.”
“Oh, man,” Briggs said. “This sounds bad.”
“No kidding,” said Charlie.
“The shipping crate should’ve been found at an oil field distribution depot, but yeah, it wound up in Natanz,” Grim said. “So let me posit this: Our Russian oligarchs helped the Iranians obtain the neutron generator because they’re building a simple uranium target-ring type bomb using the stolen material from Mayak. It’s definitely not a newer plutonium implosion device because the facility at Natanz doesn’t have an airtight lab or room. Plutonium’s a bitch to machine and work with. Just ask the Russians at Chernobyl all about that.”