Patriot Read online

  Patriot

  M.A. Rothman

  Primordial Press

  Copyright © 2021 Michael A. Rothman

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  Cover Art by M.S. Corley

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  Also By M.A. Rothman

  Technothrillers: (Thrillers with science / Hard-Science Fiction)

  •Primordial Threat

  •Freedom’s Last Gasp

  * * *

  •Darwin’s Cipher

  * * *

  Levi Yoder Thrillers:

  •Perimeter

  •The Inside Man

  •Never Again

  * * *

  Connor Sloane Thrillers:

  •Patriot

  •The Death Speech

  •Project Thor

  * * *

  Epic Fantasy / Dystopian:

  •Agent of Prophecy

  •Heirs of Prophecy

  •Tools of Prophecy

  •Lords of Prophecy

  * * *

  •Running From Destiny

  •The Code Breaker

  •Dispocalypse

  •The Plainswalker

  •The Sage’s Tower

  Contents

  Messages

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Author’s Note

  Preview of The Death Speech

  Addendum

  About the Author

  Deep Sea Research and Salvage

  58-1 Nazeuragami, Amami 894-0068, Kagoshima Prefecture

  Mr. Mohammad Hakimi:

  This is in regards to the salvage operation we conducted on your behalf 152 kilometers southeast of Kikaijima Island. The payment that you provided was not honored by your banking institution.

  We regret that you must be charged a ten percent late penalty. Payment in full, including the penalty, must be received by us within the next thirty days or we will have to contact our attorneys on this matter.

  Your assistance in this matter is appreciated.

  Sincerely yours,

  * * *

  Yoshi Takahashi

  Executive Director, DSRE

  TO: Connor Sloane, Analyst - CIA

  SUBJ: UDC Query Response – Broken Arrow @ 152 km SE of Kikaijima Island

  * * *

  Per your request, I conducted a search of the Central Records System and found no evidence of any US assets being lost in that vicinity. However, a search of the National Archives yielded some results that you may find interesting.

  In December of 1965, there are records documenting the loss of a military asset at 27°33.2’N, 131°19.3E, which is within a five-mile radius of your stated query. It resulted in the loss of an A4-E Skyhawk attack aircraft. It was carrying a B43 nuclear payload, with an estimated explosive yield of one megaton. I’ve attached details regarding the payload as well as a scan of the now unclassified ship’s deck log of the USS Ticonderoga dated December 5th, 1965.

  Sincerely,

  Kaitlyn Shaw

  Archives Technician (3A)

  Chapter One

  Mohammad Hakimi watched the operation from the captain’s overlook, five decks above, holding his breath as the half-century-old aircraft swung uneasily over the unusually calm waters of the East China Sea. He cringed as the crane’s motor whined under the strain of the water-soaked airframe being transferred between the two massive ships. Lightning flashed, throwing dancing shadows across the deck, and Mohammad tapped nervously on the metal railing, knowing that within minutes, the incoming storm could ruin everything. Floodlights erected around the loading area illuminated the workers watching the operation along the gunwale. The operation’s foreman stood on a raised platform, pointing and shouting as the men below pulled on guide wires, turning the wrecked airframe so it was aligned properly with the marked section on the receiving deck.

  Lightning again flashed across the sky, this time much closer, and the concussive blast from the thunder sent vibrations through Mohammad’s chest.

  One of the men aimed a floodlight at the twisted frame of the fighter jet. Its wings were partly torn off, the back section was completely gone, water spilled from the cockpit and engine intakes, and the bent and dented fuselage was covered with coral. Mohammad could just make out the emblem below the cockpit, a boomerang and compass inside a circular badge. The number 402, on the aircraft’s nose, had been covered by coral and worn away long ago, but the squadron emblem, partial frame number, and what looked like an intact payload still affixed to the underside of the aircraft told him everything he needed to know.

  This was the plane he was looking for.

  It had been lost at sea in 1965. At the time, the Americans used all the means they could to retrieve it, but the depths of the ocean—and fate—were against them. And despite it being a “broken arrow incident”—meaning an accidental loss of a nuclear asset—they had seemingly forgotten about it.

  Mohammad smiled as he watched the salvaged wreck hovering in the air, free from the crevasse it had been hiding in for more than half a century. This American loss might just enable him to deliver justice, in Allah’s name, to those who wanted to destroy everything about his way of life. They would finally know the power of the one true god.

  Allahu Akbar, he thought, fingers squeezing the rail as the boat shifted under the first swells of the incoming storm.

  The odds of finding this wreck, this instrument of vengeance, had been almost zero, yet here it was. God was most certainly great.

  The aircraft, having cleared the gap between the ships, swung lazily back and forth over the receiving deck. Deckhands rushed to maneuver the wreckage over the predetermined area, struggling to keep their balance as the ship began to roll under their feet. Metal groaned and creaked as the crane lowered the wreckage onto the deck.

  “It’s glorious, my friend,” said Ramzi bin Sadir. He stood beside Mohammad, his forearms resting on the rail. The rain had matted his long hair across his face, and water dripped from his close-cut beard. Lightning flashed again, illuminating his smile. “Isn’t it?”

  Mohammad nodded. “It is.”

  On the deck, the foreman shouted at his men again, though Mohammad didn’t understand his rapid-fire Japanese. Two of the deckhands had anchored their retaining strap to the wrong clamp and were seemingly catchi
ng hell for it. The foreman pointed wildly, throwing his arms in the air, pacing and barking like a crazed maniac. This was all likely a show for Mohammad’s benefit, especially since he’d instructed the captain that if they made their journey ahead of schedule there would be a bonus involved. The captain and foreman both stood to make a substantial sum for their time.

  Footsteps echoed up the stairwell, and both men turned to see a soaked Tariq, one of Mohammad’s men, appear at the top of the stairs, hand on the rail, breathing heavily. “The Russian confirmed it… The payload, it’s intact.”

  A joy Mohammad hadn’t felt in years swelled in his chest. He smiled. “Allahu Akbar.”

  Tariq returned Mohammad’s smile. “Allahu Akbar.”

  “Is the container prepared?” Mohammad asked, glancing back at the operation below. On the far side of the wrecked fighter, a large red intermodal shipping container had been secured to the deck. The forty-foot container had been specifically designed for Mohammad, with intake valves affixed to either end and two top panels that swung up and out, allowing access to the interior.

  Tariq nodded. “Yes. It’s ready.”

  The foreman shouted again, pointing as a second smaller crane lowered a harness next to the plane.

  “We must make sure the weapon is handled with care, Tariq,” Mohammad said. “Where is the Russian?”

  Tariq’s expression shifted from excitement to contempt. “He says he doesn’t like the rain. He went back below deck.”

  Ramzi glared and said something to Mohammad, but his words were drowned out by a chest-shaking thunderclap.

  “What?” Mohammad asked, canting his head to the side.

  “I said, he is a devil,” Ramzi repeated. “We should kill him.”

  Mohammad shook his head. “No. We can’t.”

  “I don’t understand why you made this deal with these Europeans and Russians,” Ramzi said. “It’s just one more piece that can link back to us after this is complete.”

  “After this is complete, and our message has been sent, it won’t matter.”

  Ramzi stood silently for a moment, considering Mohammad’s words. Then he nodded, and Mohammad saw the understanding on his friend’s face. “Allahu Akbar,” Ramzi whispered.

  Yes, my friend, Mohammad thought, pulling his satellite phone from his pocket. There is only one way this ends.

  Chapter Two

  Connor Sloane’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, partially drowned out by the sound of the Dan Carlin podcast—currently describing the Maginot Line at the beginning of World War II—coming through his one inserted earbud. At just minutes before six in the morning on a Friday, the halls of the New Headquarters Building of the Central Intelligence Agency were empty—just the way Connor liked it. It was at this time of day that he accomplished the most, before all the station chiefs and division heads interrupted him with all their “top priority” tasks.

  Even the cafe, which was normally the center of activity, was empty apart from a few maintenance workers and janitors who sat laughing at a table at one side of the room. The service workers prepping food behind the buffet line ignored Connor as he crossed to the barista counter. The powers that be had finally decided, after years of appeals from employees, that a Starbucks was worth the expense. Probably because the higher-ups themselves had tired of falling victim to the bland government excuse for specialty coffee.

  The barista looked up and smiled. “Morning, Mr. Sloane. You want your usual today?”

  Connor pulled out his earbud and made an effort not to frown. Whenever someone in their mid-twenties called him “Mister,” it reminded him that despite being only thirty-five, he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore. “How many times have I asked you to call me Connor? And yeah, the usual. Thanks, Ian.”

  Out of a habit grown from nearly a decade in the army’s Special Forces, Connor made a point of knowing the people he saw on a daily basis. Ian was a good kid who’d played college basketball at George Washington University—at six foot six, he stood almost half a foot taller than Connor. But then he’d blown out his knee coming down from a dunk, effectively killing his hopes of playing in the NBA. Now he was working his way toward a law degree.

  Ian pulled a venti cup off the stack and wrote a number in black Sharpie. This was the only Starbucks that Connor knew of that didn’t write names on the cups. Even though most of the people working here were analysts and not in any way covert operators, the CIA had an ever-present paranoia about using names, even within these walls.

  “Hell of a loss last night, eh?” Ian said.

  Connor groaned. “Don’t even get me started.”

  “I mean, how many times can you legitimately say that an offsides call cost someone the game?” Ian shook his head while pouring steaming coffee into Connor’s cup. “I mean, that was just horrible.”

  “You really do like driving the stake in, don’t you?”

  The kid was right though. An interception that would’ve sealed the deal for the Redskins had been called back because one of the linebackers had been offsides. Washington never got the ball again and lost 21-14.

  “Catching some terrorists today?”

  “Oh yeah,” Connor said. “I’m all over it. Going to make a difference in the world. And if I’m lucky, I might even save the princess.”

  Ian laughed, added a little cream to the Pike’s Place, then pushed the lid on and handed it over. “On the house today, Mr. Sloane.”

  Connor raised an eyebrow as he slid his wallet back into his hip pocket. “Oh?”

  “You know, because you’re in mourning and all that.”

  Connor chuckled, taking the cup. “The heartache is real.” He lifted the cup in salute and headed out of the cafeteria, inserting one earbud as he went.

  Connor never used more than one earbud. Listening to historical podcasts was one of his favorite pastimes, but being aware of his surroundings, even within the depths of the CIA, was another army habit that had never left him.

  As he walked down the featureless corridors, he couldn’t help but think of the layouts in Vegas, which were purposefully designed to keep you on the casino floor, spending money. These maze-like hallways, it seemed, were designed to keep you in your office, working. But they were better than the mountains of Afghanistan on the worst day. It was there that a loss of situational awareness could cost you your life.

  He stopped at a nondescript door marked with a simple plate on the wall: Counter-Intelligence, East Asia / Pacific. He tapped in his passcode and slipped inside.

  The Bullpen, as it was called, was a long rectangular room filled with cubicles, except for an open area at the center where the main conference table sat. Offices lined the edges of the room, providing quieter spaces for the senior analysts, like Connor.

  Connor was always the first in. He liked to get most of his work done before the main crowd even arrived. Once the office began to fill up, most of his time was spent jumping between stations and putting together reports for upstairs.

  He opened the door to his office and shook his head at the stack of files covering his desk. “Going paperless” had been the mantra of the agency for the last five years. They’d said the same thing in the army. But in both organizations, Connor considered the idea a non-starter, a talking point for execs looking to get promoted. Sure, everyone liked the idea in theory, but in pure practical terms, “going paperless” was a pipe dream that would never happen. People simply liked holding a physical piece of paper in their hands.

  He set his backpack down next to his desk, then pulled his blinds back and gazed out at the horizon. The sun would be peeking out soon. From his fourth-floor window, he had a great view of Kryptos, the mysterious sculpture with four encrypted messages that resided in one of the central squares outside the main building. The infamous sculpture, built in 1990, had bewildered and confused experts from around the world, and even using the most advanced supercomputers available today, no one had been able to decipher the final clue. The first thr
ee passages had been solved, though it had taken a full two years for someone to figure them out and another ten years before that solution was publicly announced. The final passage on the structure remained a mystery, one that Connor was never going to tackle, but kept some of the agency’s cryptanalysts busy during their spare time.

  Connor sipped his coffee, wondering how much fun the sculpture’s creator had watching as expert after expert tried to decrypt his masterpiece. More fun than I’m going to have today, he thought.

  He sat down and powered on his computer, then spent several minutes working through the multiple layers of security built into the machine. He opened his email, but only skimmed his unread messages, knowing most of them were updates on cases he wasn’t directly a part of, though his section was working them. He’d learned early on that getting sucked into knowing everything that his unit had going on was a rabbit hole that he could get caught up in for hours. And then he’d never get any real work done.