First Strike

CHAPTER EIGHT

Saturday, October 19

Oval Office

The White House

Washington, DC

President Carter Helton was the son of a coal miner who’d labored for decades in Greene County, Pennsylvania, where coal was still king. President Helton’s father wanted a better life for his five kids. He was the oldest of the five and was the first member of the Helton family to attend a university. His grades had earned him a partial scholarship to Slippery Rock University, and his excellent work ethic, along with his father’s savings, propelled him to Penn State, where he got his law degree.

In addition to being book smart, he was a streetwise individual who possessed the gift of gab, an almost perfect trifecta for becoming a politician. He rose through the ranks of Pennsylvania politics, from the local level in his hometown of Waynesburg, to the State House in Harrisburg.

He paid his dues. Made the right friends. Rubbed elbows with the rich and powerful. Now here he was, well into his first year as president and rushing down the hallways of the West Wing, his security team and a handful of staffers in tow. His new administration was being tested, and the pressure was enormous.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” said one staffer nonchalantly as she struggled to keep up with the boss. “Sir, they’ve changed the meeting to the Roosevelt Room.”

As President Helton continued down the hallway, he addressed the young woman. “Who’s here?”

“All of them, sir,” she replied, referring to the top brass of the Pentagon.

The meeting in response to the Abu Dhabi terrorist attack had been delayed several hours at the president’s request. He wanted the best possible intelligence available to make a decision. He was not interested in supposition laced with agenda-setting motives. He’d learned in his first hundred days in office that those permanent residents of the DC political apparatus had their own opinion of how the government should be run. Presidents came and went.

Just as he strode past the chief of staff’s suite, Harrison Chandler, former congressman from Pennsylvania and longtime friend, dashed out with his computer tablet stuck in his left armpit.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” he greeted. “We’ve got a full house.”

“So I’ve heard. Is there anything new to add since they delivered the PDB early this morning?”

From the moment he’d been declared president-elect by the media, President Helton was made privy to the same tools given to the former president, such as intelligence reporting and analysis. Known as the President’s Daily Brief, the binder created was in essence a toolkit of information that overlapped with that of the president.

Producing and presenting the daily brief was the responsibility of the director of National Intelligence, whose office was tasked with fusing intelligence from the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the National Security Agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and other members of the U.S. intelligence community.

President Helton asked that economic issues be included in the PDB, as the nation was in the throes of an economic and trade war with China. He believed gaining insight into the capabilities and intentions of America’s global competitors was every bit as important as keeping an eye on hot spots around the globe, such as the Middle East.

The recent mass assassination of the Iranian nuclear scientists and yesterday’s terrorist attack in Abu Dhabi had brought tensions in the Middle East to their highest level in decades. The media was demanding answers from the president’s communications team. His White House spokesman had held them off thus far, but many were already looking at the president as weak and indecisive because of the delayed response.

Chandler filled the president in on what to expect. “Here are the highlights. Yemeni rebels. Funded by Iran. Their target was the Israeli delegation, but they came in a little heavy-handed and killed a lot of innocents unrelated to the peace conference.”

“A little heavy-handed, Harrison? That’s an interesting choice of words.”

“Well, sir, I think you’ll hear from the Pentagon and intelligence heads that their plan was ill conceived. If their goal was to gain revenge for the attack on the nuclear facility at Isfahan, they could’ve sent in a suicide bomber or two. Instead, they destroyed the entrance to the conference center and randomly murdered anyone in their path. It was senseless.”

President Helton sighed as he reached the open doors to the Roosevelt Room. “Aren’t they all?” he asked without expecting a response.

The windowless Roosevelt Room served as a daily meeting location for the White House staff and the president’s briefings. It had been upgraded a decade ago to include a wall of televisions and a large screen for multimedia presentations. President Helton often used this platform to conduct video conferences with foreign leaders.

As he entered, the members of the national security team and the White House communications director were getting settled into their seats. As the president entered, they all shot back up in unison out of respect.

“Good morning and thank you for coming in at this early hour,” said the president. He noticed the puzzled looks on their faces. “Well, sorry. I realize it’s been a long night for you all. Thank you for your efforts. Please sit down and tell me where we stand.”

The Joint Chiefs and the CIA director joined the director of National Intelligence in laying out the facts. Since the attack on their nuclear facility, the rhetoric out of Tehran had escalated daily. The terrorist attack had been undertaken by their proxy, the Houthi Shiite rebels in Yemen, who’d acted on behalf of the Tehran government for many years. They were just one of half a dozen well-funded groups throughout the Middle East who waged war on Western and Israeli interests.

“All right, before we address the issue of our response, especially in light of the American delegation being there, including my secretary of state, what are we doing to bolster our presence in the Persian Gulf?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs replied, “Sir, the Nimitz Carrier Strike Group had been operating off the coast of Somalia as we pulled troops and assets out of that country and redistributed them into Northern Africa following the Isfahan incident.

“As you know, the Nimitz was long overdue for a return to port in Bremerton, Washington, after a thirteen-month deployment. However, its skipper has assured us his people are ready to go where their Commander-in-Chief sees fit.”

“Please thank Admiral Kirk for me.” Rear Admiral David Kirk, a Hershey, Pennsylvania, native, had recently been named the new commander of the massive aircraft carrier and the flotilla of ships that surround it. “What do you have in mind for the Nimitz?”

“Mr. President, after the attack on the nuclear facility, we began the process of redeploying the Nimitz to the region. They will be entering the Straits of Hormuz within forty-eight hours. However, sir, we might need to rethink deploying the Nimitz into the Persian Gulf.”

“Why is that?”

“If the conflict between Iran and Israel escalates further into a hot war, the relatively small and nearly landlocked body of water is an anti-ship missile engagement zone. It’s rife with other potential threats that are difficult for the carrier strike group to counter, like small-boat swarm attacks, naval mines, and the Iranian’s nontraditional submarine operations.”

Days after President Helton’s inauguration, the Iranian Navy towed a refurbished mock aircraft carrier into the Strait of Hormuz, which links the Persian Gulf to the Gulf of Oman. The movement of the heavily modified barge designed in the likeness of an American flattop aircraft carrier immediately drew the attention of U.S. intelligence.

Satellite imagery revealed the mock carrier being towed into the center of the strait one day, and the next day, a large crosshair had been painted on its top deck. On day three, several fast boats operated by Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard were filmed swarming the faux carrier, firing surface-to-surface missiles at the bow. The explosion, most likely generated by fuel containers stored in the front of the barge, could be seen throughout the coastal areas of the Persian Gulf and by astronauts aboard the International Space Station.

It was clearly viewed as a provocation and a message to the first-year president that Tehran was not to be trifled with. After years of being kept in check with sanctions, they were prepared to flex their muscles, apparently.

The president furrowed his brow. The Nimitz Carrier Strike Group would’ve been seen as an effective deterrent to any military action by the Iranians. “What do you suggest we do in the meantime?”

“Sir, we have an Ohio-class submarine, the USS Georgia, in the region. We can send her into the Persian Gulf, you know, high profile, to send a message. The Iranians have nothing to counteract a vessel like the Georgia, which is packed with Tomahawk cruise missiles and our special operations forces.”

“When could it arrive?”

“By tomorrow afternoon, sir.”

“Do it, General. Let them know we mean business.”

CHAPTER NINE

Saturday, October 19

Holiday Inn Abu Dhabi

Peter Albright stood at the window of his upper-level hotel room in the Holiday Inn Abu Dhabi. He had a bird’s-eye of the activity taking place around the National Exhibition Centre, where the terrorist attack had taken place. Large crowds had gathered around the Embassy of Iran, just across Al Maarid Street at the back of the conference location. Likewise, a contingent of U.S. military vehicles had gathered around the U.S. embassy a mere block away.

Peter had just hung up with a friend and college classmate at the University of Miami who worked as a member of the Department of Defense communications team inside the Pentagon. The two had dated while in college, but there was nothing serious other than the usual kids-just-left-home-time-to-play relationship. They still got together for the occasional drink or dinner, followed by a noncommittal sleepover. It worked for both of the young DC professionals, who were trying to advance their careers rather than seeking to settle down.

Jenna Alan loved government. Her father had been a local politician with designs on higher office before a heart attack struck him while Jenna was obtaining her degree in broadcast journalism. In recent months, she’d been assigned press briefing duty and frequently took to the podium when her boss was traveling with the secretary of defense. Unlike Peter, who didn’t have that inside connection with the secretary of state, Jenna was always in the know when it came to the Pentagon’s inner workings.

She’d told Peter about the redeployment of the Nimitz strike group and the USS Georgia toward the Persian Gulf. The drums of war were beginning to beat louder, Peter had thought to himself as he listened to her detail the Pentagon’s moves, off the record, of course. The two had a very trusting relationship, allowing them to share information without fear of reading about it online later that day.

Like a good soldier, Peter had filed his press pool report soon after he’d been evacuated from the conference center. Unable to sleep, he’d ordered dinner and half a dozen Heinekens to relieve the stress. He sent out a text message blast to family and friends, letting them know he was safe. Then he sat down to write the best news article for the Washington Times he’d ever produced. He was the only journalist who’d witnessed the attack firsthand and lived to tell about it.

During his extensive self-edits, he chose to remove the details related to his killing of a terrorist and the use of the grenade to escape. He feared bringing unnecessary heat on his family. By midmorning in the States, his reporting was being cited and shared by every news agency in the country. He’d already received several requests to appear on camera for interviews as soon as he returned home.

The other big story of the news day was the president’s anticipated response. Peter knew the secretary of state and her team were never in imminent danger. Per the schedule, which was widely disseminated, she and the Israeli delegation had been having a preconference meeting on the top floor of the center. This fact struck Peter as odd, in that the terrorists could’ve easily deployed rocket-propelled grenade launchers to fire upon the upper levels. Either they weren’t prepared, or they were amateurs. That was not for him to speculate, so he didn’t in his reporting.

The world media began to immediately theorize whether Iran would take their retaliation against Israel to another level—the use of nuclear weapons. Despite the nuclear nonproliferation agreement entered into with Iran more than a decade prior, the rogue nation continued to develop enriched uranium. Quickly, with the help of North Korea and Russia, Iran had amassed nearly a hundred nuclear warheads, to put it on par with Israel in the region.

The nuclear silos dotting the mountains and desert region along the Iraqi border in western Iran were barely a thousand miles from the Israeli targets of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. An Iranian nuclear warhead affixed to a cruise missile could strike Israel about twenty minutes after launch.

President Helton ran on a platform of stopping the nuclear proliferation in the Middle East. He used especially strong words against North Korea, who was the primary supplier of technology and materials to the Tehran government. The DPRK’s actions had just been a continuation of their open defiance of the international community as it related to the nuclear arms race in South Asia and the Middle East.

As a result, the Pentagon was strongly urging the president to resume nuclear testing. Jenna had told Peter about a faction within the Department of Defense that wanted to abandon the current zero-yield standard, the prohibition of test explosions that produce a nuclear chain reaction of any kind. Congress had refused to provide the Pentagon funding for the testing, so they sought an end-run of the budgetary process by asking the new president to reallocate discretionary monies within the budget. Thus far, President Helton, who was decidedly anti-nuke, had resisted.

The other policy issue, as Peter saw it from the perspective of the State Department, was whether the countries like Iran, North Korea, and even Pakistan would see the president’s inaction as a sign of weakness. Publicly, the secretary of state did her level best to talk tough to America’s adversaries, warning them against the use of ballistic missiles in any conflict.

The continual war of words between America and her adversaries often reminded Peter of something his father, Hank, had told him when he was young. Words are cheap, but at times, they’re all you can afford. Words will just be words until you act on them.

He closed his eyes for a moment and envisioned what that would look like.

CHAPTER TEN

Saturday, October 19

Driftwood Key

Hank Albright operated a hotel and resort. He was not a cruise director responsible for keeping his guests entertained. Ordinarily, those who enjoyed the environs of Driftwood Key found plenty of things to do without keeping their eyes focused on the television while drinking coffee. He understood their insatiable desire to be in-the-know. He had been like that once until he had an awakening one day. He realized there was nothing he, on an individual basis, could do about newsworthy events. Unless they affected him or the inn, it was just clutter in his brain. This sense of independence from the outside world probably kept him off Prozac or from swimming in the bottom of a bottle of rum.

Because it was Saturday, many of the guests chose to avoid Key West because a cruise ship was in port. The citizens of Key West had passed a referendum limiting the number of passengers who could disembark a cruise ship at any given time to fifteen hundred. Most major cruise lines such as Royal Caribbean, Carnival, and Norwegian didn’t operate ships small enough to pull into Key West. Boutique cruise operators like Oceania and Crystal were regulars.

He got with Jimmy and immediately organized a backgammon tournament for those who didn’t already have plans. They set up lounge chairs under umbrellas near the thatched-roof tiki bar. Hank offered some prizes in the form of Driftwood Key swag like tee shirts, caps, and novelties. It was all in fun and designed to take their minds off world events.

Erin Bergman’s sisters had all gathered around the media room and enjoyed coffee with a variety of pastries prepared by Phoebe. Hank periodically peered out the windows toward the stairs leading up to the main house in search of Erin, who’d abruptly left during dessert the night before. He was beginning to wonder if she had been forced to leave without notice.

Her older sister picked up on Hank’s demeanor and pulled him aside. “Erin has to be available for a conference call this morning. She hasn’t been called back to Washington. You know, in case you were wondering.”

Hank blushed. He guessed his concern was obvious. “I know things must be stressful in the White House. I’m sure they’d recall her if necessary, right?”

The sister nodded. “Fortunately, she’d be out of the loop on national security matters.”

Hank thanked her for the update, and after the news story switched to the punditry portion of the programming, everyone gladly escaped the main house and descended across the pristine Bermuda grass lawn until they reached the white sand beach.

Hank had called in the steel drum band early that day so the atmosphere could be upbeat and festive. After mimosas were offered and good-luck toasts were shared by all, the backgammon tournament began.

Backgammon is a two-player game during which the goal is to move your checker-like pieces along a board consisting of twenty-four points, or spaces. With each roll of the dice, pieces are moved until they are in your home board and can then be taken off. Whoever removes their pieces first wins.

It’s a game that requires strategy but one that doesn’t require one hundred percent focus. It had been a favorite of sailors who were more interested in soaking in the rum than winning the game, although it was also a favorite of gamblers.

Once everyone was settled in, Hank wandered toward the long dock that stretched into the Gulf. The water was calm that morning, and the fish that fed off the barnacles attached to the piers would be in full view. He squinted his eyes and noticed a woman standing at the end of the dock under the thatched roof. She was wearing a white linen coverup that blew slightly with the breeze, as did the American and Conch Republic flags flanking the pier.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, glanced around, and moseyed onto the dock. A minute later, he’d joined Erin, who was deep in thought.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked politely.

Somewhat startled, she looked down at herself shyly and pulled her bathing suit coverup across her body. She smiled at Hank and replied, “No, not at all. Actually, my little brain needed a break from thinking.”

Hank joined her side and laughed. “Somehow, I doubt your brain is little.”

“Well, let’s just say it’s too small for all the crap swirling around in there.”

Hank paused before he continued. He pointed toward a stingray that casually swam by the dock. The cow-nosed, mystical creature was oblivious to its admirers as it searched for its next meal.

“Don’t you wish you could be that guy?” he asked jokingly.

“Not a care in the world,” she replied. She let out a deep sigh.

“Let me know if I’m overstepping, Erin, but is it worse than what the media is letting on?”

“In some respects, yes. In others, no. The media tends to overdramatize things to keep viewers’ eyes glued to the screen. It’s what they don’t know that is concerning.”

“Oh?” asked Hank.

Erin leaned forward and placed her elbows on the deck railing as the stingray swam out of sight. She fiddled with her hands.

“International politics are complicated. Over the last hundred years, America’s adversaries have changed. The Nazis and Japanese were a clearly defined enemy until they were defeated. Then the Soviet Union tried to take advantage of the power vacuum. They were soon joined by China as the communists began to have a greater influence around the world.

“Today, you have nations like North Korea, Iran, and Pakistan that have deadly nuclear capabilities. They cannot be trusted and are in all respects unpredictable. One always thought—at least as it relates to the U.S., China and Russia, the so-called nuclear powerhouses—that cooler heads would prevail.”

Hank interjected, “We’ve always seemed to respect the concept of mutually assured destruction, right?”

Erin hesitated. “Yes, once upon a time, anyway. Nuclear capabilities have changed over the last thirty years. Quick, precision strikes are now available to all the major powers. We no longer have to launch ballistic missiles from silos in the Northern Rockies. We have ships and submarines that can do it as well. Hell, our intelligence agencies believe both Iran and North Korea have nuclear warheads sailing over our heads, attached to satellites. The Pentagon refers to them as the Axis of Evil.”

Hank leaned forward and looked toward the incredibly blue skies. “Really?”

“Really,” she replied before shifting the conversation. “Here’s the thing, Hank. And please understand, this is just my opinion as an American with more knowledge than the political outsiders. Iran and Israel have been staring each other down for longer than you and I have been alive. Despite the provocation, our government has never believed that Israel would be the first to pull the nuclear trigger in the Middle East. Iran, however, is another matter.”

“Are they that stupid? And how do they justify it? Israel has completely denied any involvement in that killing spree a couple of weeks ago.”

Erin chuckled. “Nobody believes that, especially the Iranians. The Israeli government has demanded that Iran stop its nuclear weapons program before they actually had them. Now, the speed of their proliferation is mind-boggling. I don’t blame the Israelis for taking action.”

“Well, it seems all they did was kick the hornet’s nest. You know, when you stir up a hornet’s nest, you’re gonna get stung.”

Erin took a deep breath and exhaled. “The question is how big of a stinger will they use?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Saturday, October 19

Key West, Florida

The Monroe County Sheriff’s Department had a dozen detectives, and only one, Mike, was assigned to homicides full time. When you averaged one to two murders a year, a lot of warm bodies weren’t required to investigate murders on a regular basis. The county had one cold case from more than ten years ago, and Mike had reached nothing but dead ends in trying to solve it. Most of his time was spent looking at accidental deaths in order to rule them out as homicides. The current cases were handled much differently.

“Okay. Okay. Please settle down, everyone,” said Mike as the complete detective contingent for the sheriff’s department gathered in the large conference room at the administration building in Key West. “We’re joined today by a couple of familiar faces for those who were involved in the cruise ship slaying a few years ago. Rodriguez and Lively with the Forensic Science Program within the FDLE have come down to lend an assist.”

The detectives acknowledged the two scientists, and Mike returned to the lectern. He’d powered up the wall-mounted monitors that flanked him. The second victim’s image filled the screens. He explained what he knew so far.

“Dade county provided us this mug shot of Mr. Marty Kantor during a slightly better time. Through some pretty good detective work by uniformed deputies, one of the severed fingers was found in the hammocks. Kantor was apparently a heavy meth user and an infrequent visitor of the dentist, so dental records weren’t much help. However, the discovery of an abandoned car together with the single print enabled us to make the positive ID.”

“The mother’s car?” asked one of the detectives who’d reviewed the file.

“Yes. Mrs. Kantor apparently died of a drug overdose in her home many weeks ago. I drove up to Hialeah to join Dade County detectives as they entered the Kantor home. We found her decaying body wrapped in her bedding on the floor. I suspect Marty was collecting his mother’s welfare checks to buy drugs.”

Another detective raised his hand. “Any indication of why he came to the Keys? Key West, in particular?”

“Unknown,” replied Mike. “We’re going to assign some of you to liaison with Dade County to canvass Kantor’s neighborhood in Hialeah. You’ll also be responsible for scouring the internet, social media sites, etc.”

“He doesn’t look like an Instagram influencer,” quipped one of the detectives, drawing a laugh. Mike wasn’t amused. Granted, Kantor was likely a piece of crap. However, he was a human being and a murder victim.

“You never know what leads a person to be the victim of a brutal murder,” he said in a disdainful tone. “He is now our second vic in as many weeks, and the MOs are closely matched other than the actual murder weapon. The coroner was able to extract the knife blade from his sternum. It’s part of a spring-assisted knife made by SOG. I did a little checking and found it is sold in Walmart. We’ll need someone to run down that lead.”

“Are we going to publish his image in the paper? See if anyone recognizes him?”

“Yes, tomorrow. In the meantime, we’re gonna hit the streets in the area where his car was found. Try hotels and hostels. Bars and restaurants. Public places first before we go door to door. We don’t have the manpower to hit all possible locations at once, and if we truly have a serial killer on our hands, he might be planning to kill again in the next week or so.”

“Just as Fantasy Fest ramps up,” lamented one of the detectives.

Fantasy Fest was by far the wildest gathering of partiers in the Florida Keys. The last two weeks of October attracted thousands of revelers for a hedonistic warm-up to Halloween. Originally developed to draw travelers during the slower tourist period between Labor Day and Christmas, Fantasy Fest drew over a hundred thousand people from around the world. Events included the Royal Coronation Ball where two locals are crowned Conch King and Queen, a street fair, pet masquerade contests, and the selection of the Fantasy Fest drag queen.

“Here’s why we have to hit the streets running,” said Mike. “Fantasy Fest will bring more and more people into the Keys who weren’t here at the time of the first two murders. It expands the number of people we have to question unnecessarily. It also gives the murderer lots of options to choose from for his next vic.”

“What about a profiler?”

Mike bristled at the question and the subtle insinuation. Despite the fact that he’d been the lead homicide detective for the MCSD for more than a decade, obviously some within the ranks didn’t think he was up to the task.

“Let’s gather some evidence and hunt down these leads. That will help this department and any others who are called upon to help. If there’s nothing else, you all have your assignments. Let’s find this guy before he kills again.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Saturday, October 19

Home of Peter Albright

Falls Church, Virginia

Peter lived in a modest condominium in Falls Church, Virginia, about ten miles from the Harry S. Truman Building, where the State Department was located. The Washington Times offices were another ten miles past the Capitol grounds in northeast Washington. He went there once in a while, mainly during those rare periods of time that the secretary of state remained in DC.

Peter wasn’t interested in living inside the beltway like many of his counterparts. He grew up in the quiet and serenity of Driftwood Key. There was nothing comparable in the area unless he could find a place that happened to be on the Potomac River, which he wouldn’t be able to afford.

He didn’t need a fancy place to hang his hat. He was rarely home thanks to being attached to one of the most prolific travelers to occupy the leadership position in the State Department in many administrations. His place was small but quiet. His refrigerator remained empty except for a handful of condiments and lots of Hurricane Reef beer that he ordered online from their brewery near Miami. It was a little taste of the Keys to go with his dinner of choice, a BBQ chicken pizza made by California Pizza Kitchen.

When he found his way to the local Harris Teeter, his shopping cart screamed bachelor. Red Bull. Pretzels. Several bottles of Jack Daniel’s Honey Barbecue sauce and a few frozen pizzas from California Pizza Kitchen to dip into it. If he was gonna be in town for more than a couple of days, he’d splurge on a box of Entenmann’s doughnuts.

With his horrific eating habits, Peter could’ve easily packed on the pounds. However, he was fortunate to have his father’s genetics and his mother’s love for running. Every morning, without fail, Peter would strap on his Asics running shoes and pound the pavement. He’d set his Apple AirPods in place and pick out a couple of podcasts to listen to. Or he’d select the playlist full of beach songs performed by his favorite country music performers.

Considering the strain placed on his body from traveling coupled with a diet that was more college frat boy than adult journalist, Peter remained well-toned and healthy.

He was exhausted and looked forward to crashing in his own bed for a change. He’d popped open a beer and mindlessly surfed through the cable news channels to see footage of the aftermath of the terrorist attacks. A couple of the networks had created graphics quoting him and even used his picture to put a face with the quotes. It was a proud moment for him, although he couldn’t relish it. He was genuinely glad to be alive.

Once his pizza was ready, he cut it up and poured a small mound of barbecue sauce in the middle of the plate. It was a routine he’d repeated a hundred times during his years in Washington. To some, it might exhibit loneliness. One could easily feel sorry for the young man who’d devoted his life to journalism. For Peter, eating was the least important part of his daily life. He enjoyed being in the thick of international affairs, even if it was as a reporter looking from the outside in.

He was on his third slice when his landline phone rang in the kitchen. Upon his return, he’d checked his voicemails and found numerous messages from television and radio producers hoping to interview him the next day. He didn’t take the time to write them down. The late evening call was unexpected, but most likely a persistent producer. He’d reward them with the first opportunity to score an exclusive.

Peter rose from the couch and headed to the kitchen. As he did, his personal cell phone rang. Then, almost simultaneously, the secure phone assigned to him as a member of the State Department’s embed press pool chirped as well. His tiny condo was filled with a variety of ringing sounds, the most annoying of which was the landline. It, however, was the least important.

Peter raced back around the couch and grabbed the secure cell from State.

“Hello.”

“Peter, it’s Jenna.”

“Hey. Um, wait. How’d you get this number?”

“It doesn’t matter. Listen—”

Peter’s eyes caught a glimpse of the television. He started shouting, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”

“Peter! Peter!” Jenna’s voice was coming through the phone’s receiver.

“Yeah, I’m here. I see it on the news.”

“Listen to me,” she continued.

Peter turned his focus back to his longtime friend. She spoke for a moment, and then he pulled the phone away from his ear. He muttered the only words he could seem to grasp at the moment.

“Oh shit.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Saturday, October 19

Driftwood Key

After a long day, Mike and Jessica reached out to Hank by phone. He said he had a bungalow available if they’d like to come have a few mojitos and crash for the night. The childless-by-choice couple readily accepted and were treated to a hearty meal by Phoebe. The rest of the evening was spent on the beach, listening to the bongo drums and the steel drum band while a small bonfire shot flames into the sky near the water’s edge.

Hank was a social cigar smoker. On those rare occasions he was able to dig his toes in the sand and consume an adult beverage, he enjoyed lighting up his favorite cigar—the Island Jim. The torpedo-shaped smoke had been his father’s favorite, and Hank had acquired a taste for them when he used to sneak them out of the humidor as a teen. Shaped like a #2 pencil, the label featured the cartoonish image of a man who seemingly spent his entire life on the beach. Hank liked it for its rich, chocolatey flavor.

“Here’s the thing, Hank,” began Mike. “We don’t have enough warm bodies to beat the streets. Monroe County is not geared up for a murder investigation like this one. Miami-Dade has offered assistance, and of course, the FDLE is chomping at the bit to join in.”

Mike, who rarely smoked cigars, always enjoyed one when he was hanging out with his older brother. He’d always looked up to Hank as a kid and tried his best to hang with the big dogs, as his mother put it, when he was growing up. Seven years younger, Mike emulated many of Hank’s mannerisms and traits although the two men differed in career paths. Mike always wanted to be a cop, and Hank always wanted to be Island Jim. Hank kept a box of Rocky Patel cigars in the humidor for Mike. The Edge, as the cigar was called, was much milder than most smokes. It provided a nice, robust flavor without the strong knockout punch that most cigars hit the casual smoker with.

Hank took a long draw on his cigar and allowed the smoke rings to float into the night until they joined the flames from the bonfire.

“So let ’em,” said Hank as he sipped on a mojito. The Driftwood Key Inn was known for several signature traits or amenities. In addition to being the only resort on its own private island, guests raved about their signature cocktail, the mojito.

The Florida Keys, thanks to Jimmy Buffett and his Margaritaville restaurant in Key West, was often associated with margaritas. Margaritas, a tequila-infused lime drink, was first introduced near Tijuana, Mexico, in the late 1930s. Associating it with island living was a direct result of Buffett, his music, and extensive branding.

Since the Florida Keys were first inhabited, and probably because of their close proximity to Cuba, the mojito cocktail had been the drink of choice. Originally a medicinal drink used to curb disease in Havana, it was created with bootleg rum mixed with readily available mint, lime juice, and sugar cane syrup.

The Albright family, like the other early settlers of the Florida Keys, had imbibed in the tart yet tasty drink since the turn of the nineteenth century. At the Driftwood Key Inn, they followed the recipe used by most, except the Albrights insisted on using key limes grown on the property and white rum made by Havana Club, a Cuban rum now available because the embargo against the nation had been lifted.

While Hank and Jessica enjoyed their mojitos, Mike, always the exception, sipped a Jack Black on the rocks.

Hank turned to Jessica. “How about you? Anything exciting on the water today?”

As part of the Water Emergency Team, Jessica had to respond to all manner of emergencies, from people who’d been injured to divers in distress.

“You know, it’s hard to compare what I do to Mike. I’ve watched him tackle these murder cases and take them on personally as if he were a family member of the dead person. I don’t have that kind of excitement.

“Today, I had to respond to a family on the water who thought their father was having a heart attack or a stroke. We raced out there only to find out he was toasted inside and out. It was nothing more than pickled innards and dehydration.”

Hank nodded his understanding of where she was coming from. “These people are here to have a good time. They wanna drink, get some sun, and do all the things they can’t do up in Illinois or Ohio or Vermont. We try to politely warn them, and while they’re on our property, Jimmy and the others are able to let them know when they’ve had too much sun.”

The three of them sat quietly for a moment. Mike hoisted himself out of his beach chair to toss a couple more logs on the fire. He spoke to Hank as he returned to his chair.

“So, I was talking to Phoebe while we ate in the kitchen. She tells me that you’ve met a lady friend.”

Hank pulled the bill of his Tommy Bahama Relax hat down over his eyes as he shook his head from side to side. The formerly white hat was stained by years of wear and multiple washings in the salty sea.

“Geez, you people are relentless!” exclaimed Hank. “I didn’t meet a lady friend. She’s a guest of the hotel.”

“A special guest is what Phoebe told us,” added Jessica.

“Phoebe talks too much.”

“Tell us about her,” said Jessica.

“What’s to tell?” Hank asked rhetorically. “She’s here with her three sisters for an annual beach vacation. They stay at different places each year, and this year they chose the inn.”

“She’s a Washington big shot is what Sonny said,” interjected Mike.

“Damn. Sonny talks too much as well.”

“C’mon, Hank, she is a big deal, right?” asked Mike.

“Nah. Well, yeah. She’s secretary of agriculture.”

“Come on, Hank,” said Jessica. “She’s in the president’s cabinet. That’s pretty damn cool. So you two have hit it off?”

“Yeah, I suppose you could say that. I mean, we’re friendly, and she’s easy to talk to. Nothing like the politicians and government officials Peter tells us about.”

“How is my nephew?” asked Mike. “I got a text saying he wasn’t blown up in Abu Dhabi. Odd but good news, I guess.”

“A little too close for comfort, Mike. He was more in the thick of it than what was relayed in the news. Peter was lucky, but he made his own luck by some quick thinking.”

Hank finished his mojito and glanced over at Jessica’s glass to see if she was ready for another one. She noticed his interest and finished off her drink, waving the glass with a smile as she swallowed.

Hank rose and took her glass. “Michael? Ready?”

“Yeah, I’ll walk with ya.” Hank reached out with his free hand and clasped his brother’s to help hoist him off the beach chair. As he did, he heard shouting coming from the main house.

“Mr. Hank! Mr. Hank! Come quick. It’s Peter on the phone!”

The calm of the evening had just been shattered.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Saturday, October 19

Tehran, Iran

In those first few moments, they were dumbstruck. A million pairs of eyes fixed in a thousand-yard stare—nerve endings unfeeling, insensitive to what had happened.

Most just stood there. Mouth agape. Barely able to breathe as they comprehended what was happening. Others released a primal, spine-chilling scream before running in all directions in search of safety.

To observe their bodies, arms outstretched, flying away from where they once stood, would make you think your mind was playing tricks on you. Their fingers would begin to melt like a wax figurine in a much too hot enclosed room.

Then the rest of their body seemingly disappeared, evaporated into a cloud of dust, leaving no trace as it mixed with the sands of Persia.

The screaming would continue. Shrieking. Moaning. Agony expressed in any manner of ways.

Hundreds of thousands of victims at once. Maybe millions. Their fragile corpses, what was left of them anyway, strewn about amid a sea of shattered concrete and glass. A wasteland dotted with the shells of buildings, orphaned walls, and stairways leading to nowhere.

And then as a punctuation mark—a great, big exclamation point—a massive fireball would rise high into the stratosphere, carrying with it the bowels and guts of the once proud city and its inhabitants. A massive act of cremation of the dead corpses and the homes where they lived.

This was Tehran after the Israeli nuclear counterstrike. The Supreme Leader of Iran, the highest political and religious authority of the Islamic Republic, together with his Ayatollah advisers, was ready to administer justice. He needed to punish the Jews. Once that succeeded, he would turn his ire on the Americans. Death to Israel! Death to America! A mantra that was repeated a million times a day in Tehran.

Except he miscalculated.

He chose to believe the words of the scientists who’d recently been killed at Isfahan when they said their first-strike capability against Israel would be successful. He chose to believe his admired generals within the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, who assured him they had the capability to defend Iran from Israel’s counterattack. He chose to trust Allah, who told him those who might perish would rise to face the great resurrection followed by guaranteed admittance into Heaven.

He was wrong.

Iran pulled their nuclear trigger. In the first wave of their attack on Israel, they fired four fifty-kiloton warheads via Shabab 3 missiles upon Tel Aviv and two more upon Haifa up the coast. Tel Aviv was located on a flat, open plain with a high population density, making it the Iranians’ most likely target. Haifa, because of its population, was the next likely target. Jerusalem, because of its thirty-five percent Muslim population, was spared.

The superior Israeli anti-missile and anti-aircraft defenses performed admirably against the surprise attack but not perfectly. Both Tel Aviv and Haifa were struck with a nuclear warhead. The cities were devastated, but not destroyed. The aftermath would be another issue.

In Iran, its cities were particularly vulnerable to nuclear attack due to geography, building construction, and population densities. Israel was merciless in their counterattack, sending several one-megaton warheads at Tehran just seconds behind a cluster of Jericho 1 and 2 missiles to draw Iranian defenses. While the Russian-made S-300 missile defense system knocked down most of the Jericho missiles, they were preoccupied when the nuclear-armed cruise missiles arrived.

Tehran, with its thirteen million inhabitants and fifty percent of the republic’s manufacturing and education facilities, never stood a chance. The simultaneous detonations obliterated the city.

The limited nuclear war, which was over in hours, had long-lasting effects on the planet, especially in Tehran. The topography, specifically the mountains around Tehran, obstructed the distribution of the blast caused by the nuclear explosion, forcing the debris upward. This, coupled with climatic conditions that included high concentrations of airborne dust, exacerbated the size of the mushroom cloud.

The massive hot bubble of gas rose in the form of a fireball, carrying with it debris and radioactive material. Within days, it would have circumnavigated the planet.