Opening the note, he paged down to find a list of ten real estate addresses… all of them on Coronado in San Diego Bay.
He grabbed immediately for the phone, starting to dial the president, but then he thought better of it and called Gil instead.
“Gil, it’s Pope. I’ve got a question for you: If the chips were down, and you had to call on one of the West Coast SEALs to save your butt, who would it be?”
76
Kashkin’s nephew Bworz sat in a recliner in the corner of the tiny living room, watching television as he listened to two of his men squabbling in the kitchen over who had eaten whose food out of the refrigerator. With eight men living in the small two-bedroom house, unable to go outside except for at night for fear of raising the suspicions of the neighbors, it was becoming rather cramped, and the men were growing increasingly edgy.
He went into the bathroom and closed the door, looking into the mirror and lifting his upper lip to check his gums, which had begun bleeding the day before. At first it had scared him, realizing he was suffering from radiation poisoning, but then he decided it didn’t matter. The idea of dying didn’t frighten him. He welcomed it. He’d lost his wife and son to the Russians years earlier, leaving him with nothing to live for but the jihad.
In addition, his uncle Kashkin had not yet returned from Montana, and there had been nothing in the news about Gil Shannon’s death, so Bworz had come to the conclusion that Kashkin was either dead or captured. If that was the case, he and the men would have to stay with the bomb right up until the moment of detonation. His uncle was a brave and dedicated man, but no one was immune to torture, and the Americans would surely torture him to find an atomic weapon.
His only worry was that the men might see the blood on his teeth and realize that radiation was leaking from the bomb. If that happened, they might desert him, so Bworz was careful to take a drink of water before talking.
He urinated and then went into the kitchen, where the two men were still arguing, refilling his glass at the tap and turning to watch them. He took a drink and then set down the glass.
“Shut up. The both of you. I’m tired of listening to it.”
They stopped and looked at him.
“When is Kashkin coming back?” one of them asked irritably. His name was Tomas.
“He’s not.”
“How do you know?” said the other. “Has he called?”
Bworz shook his head. “He would never risk exposing our location to the NSA.”
“Then we should leave,” Tomas said. “We’ve planted the bomb, so our job is done.”
“Our job is not done,” Bworz said. “We must now remain with the bomb until the end — in case Kashkin was captured and forced to talk.”
Overhearing this, the five men sitting in the living room quickly came crowding into the kitchen.
“What’s this now?” one of them asked.
“If Kashkin doesn’t return,” Bworz said, meeting their gazes individually, “then we must all remain here with the bomb until the day. Until the moment. My uncle is a devout man, but no one can stand up to torture for very long — as some of you know from personal experience. It’s a risk we cannot take.”
“So change the timer,” Tomas said. “Set it for five hours and let’s go.”
Tasting blood, Bworz took another drink of water. “Only Kashkin knows how to change the timer.”
“Oh, well, that’s bloody convenient!” Tomas said in British English. He had studied in London. Only half the men understood what he’d said.
Bworz stared at him. “Are you afraid, Tomas?”
“I fear only Allah,” Tomas said. “His judgment. If we have to die, we have to die. But do we have to die? That’s the real question. What will be the point in staying if we can’t self-detonate the bomb in the event the house has been compromised?”
“To defend the bomb,” Bworz said, “or to move it.”
“I don’t like it,” one of the men said. “We could never defend this house from a military attack, and they will attack if they think there’s a bomb here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Bworz said, deciding to gamble. “There’s no point to leaving. We’re all dead anyhow.”
“What’s that mean?” Tomas said.
Bworz bared his teeth to show them the blood. “We’ve all been poisoned. The bomb is leaking radiation. I’ve been around it longer than any of you, but not by much. So you all have a personal choice to make. You can die here with me, painlessly and for the glory of Allah, or you can run away like cowards to die a coward’s death. Because I tell you this, brothers… cancer stalks us all. And the only cure is to die.”
One of the men dropped his gaze to the floor, muttering, “It is God’s will.”
Bworz set the water glass down on the counter and slipped through them toward the living room. “The choice is yours. I’m going to pray.”
77
Lieutenant Commander Jedidiah Brighton of SEAL Team III was eating breakfast with his wife and son in their home just north of San Diego when his iPhone chirped on the table. He sat chewing as he thumbed at the screen to check the message.
His wife, Lea, saw him make a face as he pushed the phone aside. “What is it?”
“A list of addresses over on Coronado. Some real estate idiot must be spamming the shit out of everybody in the county.”
“Dad, you just said a cuss word,” said his six-year-old son, Tony. He had the same blond hair and bright blue eyes as both of his parents.
Brighton winked at the lad. “Daddy’s allowed.”
“Yes, Daddy’s allowed,” Lea said, “but that doesn’t mean he should do it, does it?”
“He said shit!” Tony declared proudly.
Brighton laughed.
His wife frowned. “Quit encouraging him.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“No? Then you talk to his teacher the next time she calls.” She got up from the table and went to the refrigerator. “He’s been in kindergarten only a couple weeks, and she’s already called twice about him swearing at the other kids.”
Brighton suppressed a smile and looked at his son. “No more cussing in school. Got it?”
The boy nodded, scooping Cheerios into his mouth.
“What did he say, anyhow?” There was the twinkle of mischief in the SEAL team leader’s eye.
Lea frowned. “We’ll discuss it later.”
The iPhone rang, and Brighton glanced down at the name of the caller. “What the hell does he want?”
“Who?”
“Gil Shannon.”
“Oh, the hero?” She cut into her pancakes with her fork. “Better answer it before you miss your big chance.”
“Dad said hell!”
She glared at the boy. “Enough! Eat your cereal.”
Brighton picked up the phone, deepening his voice. “Commander Brighton.”
“Jed, it’s Gil Shannon. Are you in San Diego?”
“I’m eating breakfast. What do you need?” There was no great love lost between the two SEALs. Gil had served under Brighton with SEAL Team III before his transfer to DEVGRU/ST6 on the East Coast, and even before the East Coast — West Coast rivalry became an issue, the two equally strong-minded men had never gotten along. To make it worse, Brighton knew most of the details of Gil’s unauthorized mission to rescue Sandra Brux, and the fact that Gil had been awarded the Medal of Honor for it annoyed him to no end.