“Who the hell are you?”
Staring down the length of his Beretta pistol, Kurtz eyed the blond man standing before him. Not an Okinawan. There was an intensity in his eyes that was almost unnerving.
Still holding his hands in the air, the man replied, “My name is Jack Bauer. I’m with the CIA.” He spoke with an American accent, which was to say he wasn’t a Russian or European speaking poor English.
“Right,” said Aguilar, “and I’m Whitney Houston. Get on your face.”
“Listen,” the man continued, “my name is Jack Bauer, and I’m an undercover agent. My handler is Special Agent Abigail Cohen. We’re here trying to build a case against an Armenian arms dealer named Tateos Gadjoyan.” He gestured back toward the warehouse. “That building supposedly contains American military hardware, that was to be sold to Gadjoyan by an Okinawan dealer named Jimura, but we were ambushed by one of Jimura’s rivals. Some guy named Kanashiro.”
“You were involved in that mess down in Naha?” asked Kurtz.
The man, Bauer, nodded. “Yes. Some of us got away.”
Kurtz was unable to prevent a glance toward Aguilar, only to see that she was eyeing him while directing the rest of her attention to this mysterious man who was starting to say some very interesting things.
“Keep talking,” said Kurtz. “Convince me.”
Bauer replied, “I don’t know about this Kanashiro, and all I know about Jimura is that he’s a contact for the man we’re investigating. I think Jimura is up to something, and whatever it is, it’s going down today.”
“What?” prompted Aguilar. “What’s going down today?”
“I don’t know. Listen, my handler, Agent Cohen, can back up everything I’m telling you, but I have to get back to the people I’m with. If they suspect I’m a plant, they’ll scatter. We’ll lose our case against Gadjoyan, and maybe any lead we might have to whatever Jimura’s doing.”
“You’re investigating Jimura? I thought you just said you didn’t know anything about him.”
His jaw clenching, Bauer shook his head. “I’m not investigating him. I’m just following the lead to Gadjoyan wherever it takes me. Look, this guy Kanashiro is responsible for killing one of our people this morning. The only reason I know that much is because we’re working with Jimura’s people to get back what Kanashiro took.”
“You know anything about a house shootout earlier this afternoon?” asked Aguilar. “Or a car chase down by Naha?”
“Yes. Jimura wants his money or his weapons, and so does Gadjoyan. The people I’m with are in charge of this, and they’re working with Jimura’s people to dish out some payback. I honestly don’t care if they all kill each other, except as it relates to finding stolen American weapons.”
“Assuming I buy any of this,” said Kurtz, “you seem to be having a pretty bad day, and everything you try to do just digs you in deeper. Maybe the spy game’s not for you.”
Bauer scowled. “It’s my first solo mission. The guy who died this morning was the senior agent. I’ve been on my own since then.”
“No kidding.” Kurtz was surprised to realize that he wanted to believe this clown. Some parts of his story were hard to swallow, at least without more information, but there was something about this guy that seemed to elicit trust.
Is he telling the truth, or is he just a really smooth talker?
He looked again to Aguilar. “Cuff him. We can check out his story once we get him back to the shop.”
“That’s a mistake,” said Bauer. “If I don’t meet up with them, they’ll think I’m dead or that you captured me. If we work this out and I try to get back to them later, they’ll be suspicious. You have to let me go back now.”
Kurtz shook his head. “Sorry, pal. Can’t do it.” As Aguilar holstered her weapon and extracted a pair of handcuffs from a holder at the small of her back, Kurtz stepped forward. “Now, be nice to the lady, or I’ll have to put a bullet in your face.”
The two-way radio he carried on his left hip chose that moment to squawk, followed by a male voice.
“Unit Two for Unit One.”
Reaching for the radio, he pulled it to his mouth as Aguilar moved behind Bauer. “Go for Unit One.”
“We’ve got it wrapped up down here. Fifteen suspects in custody. One wounded, but the medic’s taking care of it. He’ll live.”
“We’ll be there in five. Do another sweep of the compound to check for stragglers.” Aguilar was behind Bauer now, reaching for his left wrist and instructing him not to move.
“Copy that.”
Bauer’s next move was fast, so fast that Kurtz almost didn’t believe what he was seeing. As Aguilar’s hand closed around his wrist and started to bring it down for the handcuffs, Bauer spun toward her, yanking her arm up and over her head. It was enough to pull her off balance as he moved behind her, his right hand pulling her Beretta from her holster and in a single fluid motion aiming it at Kurtz. He had twisted Aguilar’s other arm up and over her shoulder and was pulling it back and down, and she gasped in pain.
“Don’t,” Bauer snapped, his right arm unwavering as he aimed the pistol at Kurtz. “Drop the weapon and the radio. Now.”
Kurtz lifted his pistol’s muzzle before crouching low enough to place it and the radio on the ground at his feet.
“You don’t want to do this, man,” he said.
“No, I don’t, but you’re not leaving me much choice.” Aguilar started to squirm and Bauer pulled on her arm again. “Stop moving or I’ll dislocate it.” To Kurtz, he said, “You got cuffs?”
“Yeah.”
With Bauer standing out of reach and holding Aguilar’s pistol on them, she and Kurtz used both sets of handcuffs to link themselves together while they stood facefirst against a tree. Its trunk was as thick around as an average adult male, offering them enough room for some movement. Once they were secure, Bauer stepped closer, holding up the handcuff key he had taken from Kurtz, along with their NCIS credentials. Then, without a word, he placed the key on the ground near Kurtz’s foot. Next, he laid both agents’ weapons, radios, and IDs on the ground out of their reach. He had already retrieved his Glock and returned it to his shoulder holster.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said.
Aguilar replied, “Kiss my ass.”
Looking to Kurtz, Bauer said, “Agent Kurtz, remember what I told you: Special Agent Abigail Cohen. Call her when you get back.”
Then he turned and ran, leaving the two agents to watch him as he disappeared into the trees.
“I’m not believing this.” Aguilar was already eyeing the handcuff key on the ground. “Come on. Help me get the damned key.”
Kurtz started shifting his body so they could get their linked arms down the tree. “Yeah. I really don’t want the guys to find us like this.”
“You think he’s for real?”
“Why else would he leave us alive?”
By stretching her left hand, Aguilar was just able to capture the key between her fingers. “I don’t know. Kicks?”
* * *
More sirens screamed past the truck, muffled by the vehicle’s side paneling. It was the third set they had passed in less than two minutes, according to the watch on Dale Connelly’s left wrist. Sitting on the truck’s wooden floor, his hands bound in front of him with duct tape, he braced himself against the wall and tried to listen to the sounds of passing traffic. Where were they? How long had they been moving? Ten or fifteen minutes, he guessed. He had tried to keep track of their direction just by turns the truck made as it left the underground bunker, or when gravel gave way to asphalt, but it was useless. There had been too many curves, turns, stops and starts for him to remember it all, though he guessed they had made their exit from Camp Hansen without incident.
“Where are we going?” he asked the pair of Okinawan men assigned as his escorts. Neither man appeared happy with the assignment, as it called for them to be stuffed into the back of the cargo truck with no ventilation. Sweat ran freely down their faces, matting their hair and soaking their shirts, and Connelly felt his own undershirt sticking to his back and chest. For the fourth or fifth time since climbing into the truck, he wiped perspiration from his forehead.
When neither man opted to answer his question, he asked, “Do you have any water?” He hadn’t been minding his fluid intake during the day, and the earlier run with his unit coupled with the heat and the stress of the past few hours was starting to wear on him. A dull ache pounded in his temples, and he realized it had been hours since his last meal. Hunger pangs gnawed at him but he doubted he could eat now even if food was available.
One of the Okinawans, a short, stocky one who seemed not to be handling the heat as well as his partner, reached into a knapsack near his feet and tossed Connelly a canteen of water. It was one of those flat aluminum models with a blue nylon cover and carrying strap, and the water it contained was warm and possessed a rusty taste. Connelly drank every drop before closing its top and, being careful not to make any sudden moves, slid it back to the man.
“Thank you.”
As he had more than a dozen times since being forced into the truck, Connelly regarded the oversized metal crate. It was long and thin, its wheels locked into place while the crate itself was secured to the cargo compartment’s forward bulkhead. He didn’t need to study the crate’s markings, as he had long ago memorized such details. Although the abbreviations appeared to the untrained eye as little more than indecipherable clusters of letters and numbers, to Connelly they told a complete story. From those markings, he knew which of the twenty-three weapons hidden at the Hansen facility was nestled inside this particular crate. He could recite the serial number on the bomb’s casing, and even its date and location of manufacture. The precise weight and measurements were figures at his immediate recall, and he even knew which shade of gray had been used to paint its outer shell.
Connelly also knew just how much damage this weapon could inflict, and—depending on where it was deployed—how many people it could kill. The training he had received for the care and maintenance of the bomb had been a sobering experience. The instructor had rattled off soulless strings of facts and figures to describe the B61’s effectiveness. With much the same level of dedication as he had put toward learning about the use and maintenance of every firearm he had ever wielded, Connelly had listened with rapt attention to every statistic. He wrote them down, studying them and committing them to memory. If a time ever came when he was required to ready such a weapon for actual use, he wanted a complete understanding of exactly what he was doing. It was that knowledge and the respect it engendered that made him appreciate the power carried by such weapons, and the responsibility to use them with wisdom, or not at all.
And yet, you just handed one over to these guys.
Connelly didn’t fight the taunting thought. Why resist the truth? He had aided these people, and in doing so committed treason. Perhaps a general or a judge might sympathize with the circumstances, but in the end, neither civilian nor military law offered provisions for personal stakes when it came to the obedience to one’s duty. Assuming he lived through the day, Connelly knew he was looking at imprisonment and perhaps even execution. If his family didn’t survive, then his own fate wouldn’t matter to him. If by some miracle he could save them, then he could at least stand and face the consequences of his actions knowing they were safe.
Of course, what he had done to this point only raised questions about what else his captors would want from him. Why was he even still alive? The only thing that made sense was that whoever had wanted the bomb didn’t possess the knowledge to arm it or otherwise deploy it. They at least had sufficient information to guide Slicky and his goons with respect to making sure the correct equipment was procured. It was Slicky who had pointed out the toolkits stored in the vault with the weapons, which were used to inspect, maintain, and prepare the bombs for use. Connelly doubted Slicky’s boss had access to a Harrier jet or other plane capable of carrying the weapon, so that meant some other form of deployment.
They’re going to make you arm it, you know. You’re going to arm it, and then they’re going to kill you.
That thought had plagued him from the moment he watched the bomb being loaded into the truck, and Connelly’s fears only deepened when they hadn’t simply shot him back at the bunker. He had tried to ignore the idea, but there was no escaping it. The true horror of his actions wasn’t that he had handed a nuclear weapon to an enemy, but that this same enemy was going to use him to harm others.
His stomach heaved, and there was no holding back the vomit that spewed forth, staining the truck’s wooden floor. Though mostly water, there also was bile and remnants of breakfast from hours earlier. Both of the Okinawans recoiled, pushing themselves away from him and toward the other side of the truck, but there was only so far they could go.
Coughing as he reached up to wipe his mouth, Connelly grimaced. “Sorry,” he said. His apology was met with derisive grunts from the two men, before one said something to his partner in their native language that evoked a disdainful laugh. Connelly didn’t catch it all, but he did pick up an off-color reference to female anatomy.
He wiped his hands on his camouflage trousers, then held his forearm against his nose in an attempt to hold back the odor. How much longer were they going to drive? The heat inside the truck was only making the stench worse.
Beats being dead.
Connelly wasn’t so sure about that.
* * *
“Stefan!”
Amorah Banovich was the first to see him emerge from the trees, and Jack forced a smile while at the same time holding up his hands to show Yeager and his men that he wasn’t carrying his pistol.
“What happened?” asked Rauf Alkaev, from where he stood behind Banovich and next to Manish Pajari. “We were starting to worry.”
Jack replied, “Some of Kanashiro’s men made a break for it, and NCIS sent two teams to grab them. Everybody was coming at me, so I had to find a place to hide while they sorted it out. At least one of Kanashiro’s people was shot, and I think they rounded up everybody else. I was able to slip through the perimeter in all of the confusion.”
His report contained as much fact as falsehood. While it was true that the NCIS and JSDF had established a cordon around the warehouse and the immediate surrounding area, he had made good time on foot getting beyond the ring’s outer boundary even as the law enforcement agencies were closing off routes of escape and rounding up Kanashiro’s men. His only other obstacle was a near-tragic encounter with a habu, one of only a few species of venomous snakes that were abundant all over Okinawa and the other Ryukyu Islands. From what Jack had read, the snakes were territorial, predatory, and irritable. While their venom was toxic, fatalities were rare if the victim received timely medical treatment. Given the company he was currently keeping, Jack wondered if Yeager or even Banovich might not just put him out of his misery had he suffered a bite.
Opting not to test that theory, Jack instead had shot the snake.
He wondered how long it had taken the two NCIS agents, Kurtz and Aguilar, to free themselves from the predicament in which he had placed them, and if they had yet had a chance to call Abigail Cohen.
Here’s hoping.
“What do we do now?” asked Banovich, looking to Yeager.
The American shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me. Mister Jimura’s going to be pissed when he hears about this.”
“This might not be all bad,” said Jack. When that earned him a dubious glare from Yeager, he added, “Think about it. Thirty minutes later and it would’ve been us the American agents were apprehending. Kanashiro and his people are the ones who are going to be dealing with them, not us. There’s no link to Jimura. Even the weapons Jimura stole, if they’re in that warehouse, are going to fall on Kanashiro.” He was making this up as he went, but it sounded convincing, at least to his ears.
Yeager seemed to be buying it, as well. He was silent for a moment, as though processing this scenario, then nodded. “You might just be right. Maybe you should come to work for me. You’ve got a good head for this, Voronov.”
“Hands off, Yeager,” countered Banovich. “Stefan already has a job.” She glanced at him, and Jack noted her flirtatious wink.
Nice to know I have options, after the agency fires my ass.
“Come on,” Yeager said, nodding toward the SUVs. “Let’s get out of here.”
Banovich asked, “Where are we going now?”
“I have instructions to rally at another of our safe houses.” Yeager nodded toward the warehouse. “We’re done here, and it’ll be dark soon. Come on, let’s move.”
* * *
The sun was partially obscured by the trees and hills to the west, and as they approached the warehouse, Kurtz felt Aguilar slapping him on the arm.
“What the hell is that for?” he asked.
“If anybody asks, we got a flat tire.”
Kurtz shrugged. “I was going to tell them we stopped for a burger.”
“Whatever.”
The compound outside the warehouse was awash with dozens of NCIS and JSDF agents, a good number of whom were engaged in various activities pertaining to the building itself and the fifteen Okinawan nationals who had been apprehended trying to flee the area. That much had been communicated to Kurtz and Aguilar via their two-way radios.
Standing next to a blue sedan with United States government plates was Nick Minecci, wearing a tactical vest over his dark blue knit shirt and khaki pants. The agent was talking into a mobile phone sitting in its carrying bag on the car’s hood. When he spotted Kurtz and Aguilar approaching, Kurtz heard him say, “Hey, let me get back to you, all right?” After hanging up the phone, he turned to them with a curious expression. “Well, look who it is. What the hell happened out there?”
“Flat tire,” offered Kurtz.
At the same time, Aguilar said, “We stopped for a burger.”
Minecci’s eyes narrowed. “You want to take a sidebar?”
“Yes,” said Kurtz.
Aguilar shook her head. “Nope.”
“What’s the story?” asked Kurtz, gesturing toward the warehouse.
“Baby, we hit the mother lode.” Waving for them to follow him, Minecci led the way to the warehouse’s nearest door. “You’re not going to believe the stash these guys had. Money, guns, drugs, electronics, bootleg movies and music. There’s even knockoffs of designer purses. It’s like Sears in there. Somebody somewhere is going to be six kinds of pissed when they find out they lost all of this.”
They entered the warehouse, and Kurtz stopped as he beheld the stacks of crates and other shipping containers taking up space inside the building. There also were rows of storage lockers against the walls, and folding conference tables arranged in rows of ten. Various tools and equipment littered the tables, and trash cans were positioned at various points along the rows. Many of the boxes were filled to overflowing with packing materials, scrap pieces of wood and cardboard, soft drink and beer cans, food wrappers, and other junk. A handful of NCIS and JSDF agents were milling about the area, cataloging and photographing the room’s contents.
Minecci said, “Now, most of this crap is garden variety bootlegging. There’s a room at the far end with banks of CD burners and VCRs, and enough blank tapes and CDs to put RadioShack out of business.” Then, the agent pointed to a row of boxes along the room’s back wall. “That over there’s the primo stuff. Drugs and guns, and guess who the guns belong to?”
“Uncle Sam,” replied Aguilar.
Kurtz smiled. “Please tell me we can tie any of this to Kanashiro, or maybe even Jimura.”
“That’s the bad news, or at least the ‘not so good just yet’ news.” Minecci sighed. “None of the boneheads we grabbed had any ID on them. We can do fingerprints, but it’s going to take a while to see if there are any matches to known associates.”
Aguilar asked, “What about the building?”
Shaking his head, Minecci replied, “No go. According to records, the building belongs to a local construction company. I’ve got a couple of agents going to check him out, but you know he’s not going to know anything. If we’re lucky, he’ll have the documentation to show he’s leasing the building to some other guy who ends up being a paper phantom, with no ties to Kanashiro.”
“Damn it.” Reaching up to rub his temples, Kurtz groaned with fatigue and annoyance. “Okay, keep poking around in here. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Drawing a deep breath in an attempt to shake loose the cobwebs, he asked, “Hey, did you get the number I asked for?”
Snapping his fingers, Minecci reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “Not an easy lady to find.”
“That’s why I put you on it.” Kurtz had relayed the request over his radio as he and Aguilar were walking to the warehouse from the little obstacle the man named Jack Bauer had fashioned for them.
Outside, Kurtz and Aguilar availed themselves of the phone from Minecci’s car, and Kurtz dialed the number on the paper. There was a pickup after two rings, followed by a female voice.
“Special Agent Cohen.”
“Yeah, my name’s Special Agent Kurtz, with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service here on the island. I’ve got a message for you: Jack Bauer says hello.”
* * *
Brigadier General Leslie Timmons looked at the smoking ruins of his building.
Standing in silence, he watched as Marines and civilian emergency response teams moved around the perimeter of the collapsed structure. The fires scattered across the rubble had been extinguished and water ran from the piles of concrete, metal, wood, and whatever else had gone into the building’s construction, but plumes of smoke still drifted skyward. Fire trucks, both from the base and the neighboring town of Kin, were scattered around the scene. Timmons noted with satisfaction that the response to the incident had been exceptional.
“Do we have any idea what the hell happened?”
Standing to his left and a pace behind him, Sergeant Major Ronald Hanagan replied, “Nothing official, General, but we’ve already got people coming from all over the base saying it was an explosion. It blew out windows in buildings within fifty meters, and we’re even getting reports from out in town about people being rattled. It could take days to find out what really happened.”
Timmons tried not to dwell on the implications that evoked. “What about casualties? Any word on that, yet?”
“Not yet, sir. We’ve got the unit commanders verifying their rosters and letting us know about anyone who’s not accounted for.” The grizzled, veteran Marine paused, clearing his throat. “I know how this sounds, General, but we were lucky, sir. If this had happened in the middle of the day…”
Timmons could appreciate Hanagan’s meaning, having seen firsthand the results of a bombed building when it was fully occupied. More than a decade earlier, in October of 1983, he had lost three good friends on what should have been a mundane Sunday morning. A truck packed with explosives had destroyed a barracks and killed more than two hundred U.S. Marines assigned to a peacekeeping mission in Beirut, Lebanon. Fifty-five French paratroopers fell victim moments later to a second truck delivering a similar attack at their own base. Timmons had been a lieutenant colonel then, and by happenstance was at the Marine compound’s opposite end when the first truck broke through the barricades and delivered its deadly cargo. The images of that day, and the days that followed as bodies of friends and fellow Marines were pulled from the wreckage, haunted him to this day.
“How many civilian responders are on scene?” he asked.
Hanagan replied, “Seventeen, sir, all from units based in Kin. The rest are our people. There actually wasn’t much to the fire, and it only took one unit to bring it under control. Right now, they’re checking for hot spots.”
“You know we need a secondary sweep,” said Timmons, eyeing his aide with a deliberate look.
“Already on it, General.”
The sergeant major made a small gesture toward the remains of the destroyed building, where two Marines dressed in typical firefighters’ protective clothing complete with helmet, oxygen tank, and mask were making a slow circuit of the building’s far end. Clipped to the first Marine’s equipment harness was a device that could pass for a regulator or some other gauge on his respirator equipment, but Timmons recognized it as a compact, field portable Geiger counter. After a few moments, the Marine stopped to study the device before looking around the area. When his eyes settled on Timmons and Hanagan, the Marine offered a thumbs-up signal.
Thank God.
Timmons’ authority as the commanding general of Marine Corps Base, Camp Smedley D. Butler extended not to a single base but instead almost every Marine installation and tenant organization on Okinawa, all of which fell under the Camp Butler command sphere. The lone exception was the air station at Futenma, but the two commands made frequent use of each other’s facilities and resources.
Like the one right in front of you.
He was responsible for the health and well-being of every Marine, military dependent, or civilian employee at each of the bases under his command. The list of resources, missions, and ongoing support duties he oversaw was staggering, including several that fell under a security umbrella. The destroyed building before him was one such responsibility.
Upon his arrival on Okinawa—his third tour here, as it happened, and the second duty assignment to the island he had undertaken with his family in tow—and assumption of duties as Camp Butler’s commanding general, Timmons was stunned to be briefed into one particular piece of classified information. Learning that the United States was storing two dozen nuclear weapons on the island, in direct, unflinching violation of agreements with the Japanese and Okinawan governments pertaining to such arms, had shaken him for several days after the revelation.
He understood the original justification given for the storing of the weapons. They were a contingency against the Russians in the event of conflict between the two superpowers at the height of the Cold War. Now that the Soviet Union had imploded, however, that threat had faded, to be replaced with “rogue states” and terrorist cells. Timmons had come to realize over the course of a twenty-nine-year career that, in political circles, it was always preferable to have a new threat. There needed to be new adversaries America could point at and use as a reason to remain ever vigilant, prepared, and continually churning out new weapons of unimaginable power. That this occurred while funneling astonishing amounts of money into the pockets of the military-industrial complex, upon which many a presidential or congressional candidate tended to pin their futures, was of course a pleasing happenstance for many a Washington political crony. This knowledge often conflicted with Timmons and his genuine desire to serve and protect his country in honorable fashion, and there were days when resolving the two sides of the issue was all but impossible.
Two more years until retirement. Two more years.
Meanwhile, there were twenty-four questions for which he needed answers, and all of them were buried under the rubble of this building.
“Once we get the civilian responders out of here,” said Timmons, “I’m going to want another sweep, just to be sure. I also want people on hand as they start recovery operations.” Even that would be a more convoluted operation than normal, he knew, owing to the need to protect from prying eyes the secrets that lay beneath this building. He also would have to apprise NCIS and perhaps even the Japanese Self-Defense Force, depending on what cause was determined for the blast. Was this a deliberate act of sabotage, or simply a tragic accident?
Les Timmons desperately hoped it was the latter.