White Sea Rising Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by MJ Kephart

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-9961098-1-9

  Defiant Books

  www.mjkephart.com

  For Diane,

  Will and Laura

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One: Delayed-Critical

  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

  Part Two: Critical

  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

  Part Three: Prompt-Critical

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PART 1

  Delayed-Critical

  “As the Imam said, Israel must be wiped off the map.”

  — Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, President of Iran

  “Masada shall not fall again.”

  — Concluding declaration to the swearing-in ceremony for Israeli Defense Forces soldiers, referring to the Roman siege of the Jewish fortress in AD 73, which resulted in the mass suicide of the 960 defenders.

  1

  Sada Di-Nur heard the long tone in her earpiece as she waited in the staging room. That was the signal. When she looked through the peephole in the door, the hallway was clear.

  She wore the same cover-up she’d put on by the pool of the Al Batinah Beach Resort, but had added a wide-brimmed straw hat and large sunglasses to obscure her face. Leaving the hotel room, she used the fire escape exit at the end of the hall and climbed the three flights of stairs to the eighteenth floor. A large bag with the resort’s logo was looped over one forearm, and a towel obscured her hand. No one she happened to pass would notice the small device in her palm.

  Sada stopped halfway down the corridor at a door on the right. She inserted the interface card of the lock programmer/interrogator into the electronic door lock. The LPI was the size of a smart phone, with a large keypad and a cable to the interface card. This particular brand was used by hotel chains around the world, including this resort in the United Arab Emirates. Just like the upscale hotels where she’d practiced in Tel Aviv. With a few memorized keystrokes, she queried the lock for its code and programmed the interface card to replicate the occupant’s keycard. The lock, thinking it recognized the legitimate key, whirred and flashed three green lights.

  Sada slid inside and closed the door behind her. First, precautions. Taking a rubber stopper from her bag, she wedged it into the gap above the threshold. She studied the room. A suitcase lay opened on the bed, a few clothes draped over a chair back. No briefcase or papers in sight. She put the LPI and the towel in her bag and removed another small black device. She paused and checked her earpiece.

  This was not the way to conduct the operation. They’d been scrambling, reacting, ever since the report that the other team was delayed in Madrid. Then those two men had shown up unexpectedly at Alizadeh’s side. Even now, late in the afternoon, the rest of the surveillance element was pinned to the resort’s pool and lounge areas, making sure they kept eyes on the bodyguards. Go or No-go. The heated debate had lasted into the early morning hours, but in the end Jacob, the team leader, could not be dissuaded. They needed to know when Alizadeh was in the room by himself and when he was on his phone.

  Sada knelt on the carpet next to the nightstand. The listening device in her hand was as small as a camera’s memory card, but with two short wires trailing out of one end. She pulled the backing off the double-sided tape and slid her hand beneath the nightstand, attaching the bug to the back of the kick plate.

  She retrieved the beach bag and put her hat and glasses on, quickly surveying the room to ensure she’d left nothing behind. She removed the wedge from under the door.

  To her horror, muffled footsteps stopped just outside.

  Sada grabbed the beach bag and darted into the bathroom. She was easing the door shut when the heavy handle of the room door thudded down.

  She cursed at the trap she was in. It was madness trying to do this without the right personnel. And now? Options and probabilities flashed through her mind. Death, possibly. Compromise and mission failure, more likely.

  An image and snatch of conversation surfaced from her frantic swirl of thoughts. Early in her selection training, her class gathered under a camouflage netting shielding the Negev sun, an instructor speaking to them:

  Success will depend on preparation and discretion more often than courage. But when your preparations fail, act boldly.

  She set the beach bag down and slipped out of her cover-up and bathing suit, making sure the spandex made no sounds. She found a folded towel in the dark and wrapped it around her head.

  You must not hesitate.

  Sada said a quick prayer.

  Act.

  She turned on the bathroom light and ran the sink faucet for three seconds.

  She was Susan Hempstead again, British schoolteacher on holiday, when she walked out of the bathroom with her hands rubbing the towel into her hair. She saw the man in the far corner, the shock registering on his face. Broad features, Central Asian characteristics. This man was not Alizadeh, the target. That was good, perhaps. More options.

  Her gasp was not entirely feigned. The man was still an unknown threat. He had dropped his backpack and managed to pull a 9 mm pistol from under his sports jacket. He was clearly not a professional—which could be more dangerous. He shouted something, but it wasn’t Farsi or Arabic.

  “No, no, no, no. Don’t hurt me!”

  Susan, the British tourist, pleaded for her life. She pulled back in terror, crouching, trying to cover her nakedness with one arm, the other outstretched to ward off the man.

  “Who are you?” the man shouted, this time in heavily accented English.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she said. She repeated that refrain again and again between her sobs.

  “What are you doing here?” the man shouted.

  “Please, leave my room.”

  She saw the doubt form in the man’s eyes. She continued to back away. The man approached, but the weapon was lowered, no longer pointed at her chest.

  She spun on her heels and reached for the door handle, her shoulders hunched, a victim fleeing.

  A leopard coiled to strike.

  The man closed the distance while she fumbled with the door handle and grabbed her arm.

  Sada let the man’s pull initiate her spin. She rotated through her hips, slamming her fist into the brachial plexus of the man’s shoulder joint. He grunted in pained surprise and the weapon fell from his deadened hand. Her kick to his groin had so much force she came up on the toes
of her foot. He doubled over, retching, his head hanging near her waist. Stepping forward, she swung her arm under the man’s neck, locking it down with the other arm. When she straightened her legs and arched her back, the man realized his predicament—the crook of her arm was a vice, bicep and forearm pinching his carotids shut. He slapped at her naked flank for a few seconds before blacking out.

  Sada let the man’s bulk slump to the floor and took several deep breaths.

  The operation was falling apart. Everything after this would be an improvisation. A series of reactions that could snowball out of control.

  She snapped back to the present. She was in the target’s room with an unconscious body. Alizadeh had given this man access to his room, which meant he was expecting to meet him here.

  Soon.

  2

  The Al Batinah Beach Resort dominated the strip of land at the base of the Western Al Hajar Mountains. Two white wings of tiered balconies spread from a glass spine twenty stories tall, in brilliant contrast to the barren foothills and jagged brown peaks behind it. On the far side of the coastal highway spread long stretches of undeveloped beach.

  Barrett Ross was ready for a desert oasis. It was in the mid nineties when they’d left Dubai, and after a two and a half hour ride across the desert, folded in the back of his friend’s Audi, his legs were cramped and his T-shirt was clinging to his back.

  “Not bad, huh?”

  Barrett caught Dave Allen’s smile in the rearview mirror. His friend was happy to conjure up a first-class resort in this Martian landscape.

  “It might work,” Barrett said. “Let’s see what the mini-bar looks like.”

  Amy Caldwell turned around in the front seat and smiled. “You’ll love it,” she said in her broad Australian accent. “It’s perfect for unwinding.”

  Which was the point. To get away from D.C. and the think tank, the endless meetings, talking point papers, and dry reviews of foreign military expenditures. For the next week he was going to forget about work—lie in the sun, drink during the day, and read whatever he wanted to. The valet ran over as they pulled beneath the overhang, and Barrett pulled himself from the back seat as soon as the car stopped, stretching his arms skyward. The searing heat brought back his days in the 82nd and sandy drop zones under the North Carolina sun. Parachuting had been a hell of a lot more interesting than what he was doing these days.

  Inside the foyer, the staff greeted them with tall glasses of iced juice and moist cloths. Dave and Amy dealt with the reservations they’d made, and Barrett strolled around the large circular lobby. An evening breeze was blowing onshore, ruffling cocktail napkins before circulating through opened French doors to sway the palms beneath the domed ceiling.

  Barrett stepped out onto the verandah and took in the view. A series of pools stretched around the back half of the resort, connected by shaded paths and wooden footbridges. Beyond, a row of sun umbrellas marked the beach, and he could make out a line of dark smudges on the horizon. Oil tankers, he decided, plying the Strait.

  He was walking back to join his friends when he noticed one other person was waiting to check in. The man was a large Middle Easterner wearing slacks and a blazer over a mustard-colored shirt. He wasn’t very patient, because he was standing so close to Dave and Amy that he was almost on top of them. As Barrett joined his friends, he caught the big man’s glare.

  The man said nothing, though, and with their keycards in hand, they drifted towards the breeze coming through the doors.

  “Let’s get a drink,” Amy said. She led the way to a large tiki bar that overlooked the pool area. A Filipino in a floral shirt took their orders as soon as they sat down. They formed a plan—a few cocktails, an evening swim, and then time to chill in their rooms before dinner. The bartender put a pilsner down in front of Barrett.

  A loud and angry voice suddenly welled up inside the foyer and carried through the open doors. Barrett swiveled partway on his stool and saw Colonel Mustard, the big angry man from the check-in line, berating the young woman behind the front desk. A senior manager rushed to the desk to rescue his colleague and placate the ugly customer.

  What an ass.

  “Flamin’ galah,” Amy said, exaggerating her Aussie accent.

  Dave nodded. “Idiots are a global problem.”

  A man slid onto a stool a couple of places from Barrett. “That’s the answer, mate.”

  Barrett lifted his glass in silent salute.

  “Right. Do you have Tetley’s?” the man asked the bartender.

  The newcomer was short and fit, with a certain look, and Barrett pegged him as a soldier.

  “Where’re you from in the U.K.?”

  “Banbury,” the man replied. “Near Birmingham. You?”

  “Pennsylvania.”

  “Excellent,” the British tourist said, and then stuck out his hand. “Peter.”

  “Barrett. These are my friends Dave and Amy.”

  The Brit’s bearing reminded Barrett of the good NCOs he’d worked with in the past—sure of themselves, used to being in charge.

  “What brings you to the UAE?” the Brit asked.

  “Dave works for the airline. He’s been telling me for years to come visit. So here I am. This time in flip-flops.”

  Peter looked at him in an appraising way. “Military?”

  “Army for a few years, before I decided to try something else.”

  Peter nodded. “I was with our Para Regiment in Afghanistan.”

  Barrett smiled. “Small world.” He’d traveled halfway around the world, and the first foreigner he met was a paratrooper. “I started off in the 82nd. We had a Colour Sergeant from 3 Para serving on exchange in my battalion.”

  “Excellent.” Peter raised his beer. “Ready for Anything.”

  Presumably, that was the motto of the Para Regiment.

  “All the Way,” he replied.

  Maybe it was the beer, or the other man’s straightforward pride, but in either case Barrett didn’t feel as corny as he expected.

  He and the Brit started to swap war stories, comparing the shit-holes they’d been posted to in Iraq and Afghanistan, confirming that the inconveniences of a soldier’s life are common to every army. As Barrett put his empty beer down on the counter, a startlingly attractive woman walked up behind the Brit. Maybe beautiful, if she’d been smiling. She wore a cover-up and carried a large sun hat in her hand.

  She stopped next to Peter and the man looked surprised to see her.

  “We need to talk about our plans for tonight,” she said.

  “Sure,” Peter said. He made brief introductions. The woman’s name was Susan.

  The woman nodded toward Barrett and his friends, but her gaze floated somewhere over Barrett’s head.

  Her hair was shoulder length, almost black, and straight except for the ends curling in to frame her face. Her skin tone was olive, what people called warm, and the nose was aquiline—almost too sharp. Her eyes were direct and intelligent as he realized when she caught him staring. He jerked his gaze away and looked out across the bar. He noticed a young man by the pool, scanning faces around the pool.

  Damn. The British woman had been looking past him toward this guy by the pool. He was sure of it.

  “Excuse me,” the Brit said, and stood to follow the woman, who was already walking away towards the hotel. That didn’t sound like a cocky British soldier on holiday.

  Had the man just raised his guard? Or dropped his guard?

  “What was that all about?” Amy asked after the Brits left.

  Barrett shrugged.

  “She didn’t want hubby drinking away the afternoon at the bar,” Dave said.

  “Women can be so unreasonable,” Amy said.

  The three friends ordered several more rounds of drinks as they caught up with each other. It was late when they settled the tab and decided to head up to their rooms. They were waiting at the bank of elevators when Barrett heard his name called.

  “Mr. Ross?”

&
nbsp; The hotel manager, a short, impeccably dressed man, rushed over with a conciliatory smile.

  “Sir, I’m very sorry,” he said in crisp English. “I am afraid my colleague has made a mistake. We have maintenance scheduled on the eighteenth floor this week. I’m going to change you to a room on the sixteenth. Same amenities, you can be sure.”

  “You guys go ahead,” Barrett said as the elevator door opened. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Amy frowned, though, as the manager scuttled back to the desk.

  “That’s odd,” she said.

  “What’s up?” Dave asked.

  “My Arabic may be a bit dodgy,” she said, “but that barney at the front desk earlier—the loud bastard—he was shouting the number eighteen.”

  Barrett urged his friends to go ahead, and walked back to the front desk. The manager fumbled at the computer and swiped the keycard three times before he managed to reprogram it for the correct room.

  “Again, I apologize for the inconvenience, sir. I do hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

  “No sweat,” he said. “If this is my biggest hassle for the week, I’ll be just fine.”

  Barrett caught the next elevator, but the beer must have affected him more than he thought—or he was jetlagged after his Dulles to Heathrow to Dubai flights—because he pushed the wrong button for the floor. As he stepped out of the elevator and started down the long corridor, he realized he had hit 18 instead of 16.

  He knew that because of the construction. In contrast to the deep maroon carpets and the rich green print on the walls, along with low yellow lights in ornate sconces, he saw up ahead something ragged, out of place. It looked like the wallpaper was peeling off.

  A few steps from the end of the hall, he saw the wallpaper was torn and peeled back around a series of holes. A few were little black circles, the others white gouges of missing drywall.

  Not construction. He knew what little black circles could mean. He flexed his hands as he moved around the corner, wishing he were carrying something more than his room key.

  Almost instantly he lurched to his right to avoid stepping in a mess.