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  American Influence

  (Aaron Hardy Patriotic Action #2)

  By Alex Ander

  .

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  .

  American

  Influence

  Aaron Hardy

  Patriotic Action

  .

  This story proudly

  Made in the U.S.A.

  .

  Copyright ©2016 Jason A. Burley

  All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in a newspaper, magazine or electronically via the Internet.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real events or locations or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1: Cemetery

  April 8th, 8:31 a.m.; Moscow, Russia

  Kneeling, her butt resting on the heels of her boots, Natasha Volkov kissed her fingers and placed them on the new headstone in front of the freshly disturbed earth. “Mnogo lyubvi, papen’ka — Much love, Papa,” she said before standing. Natasha’s mind wandered to a time from her youth when her father would put her on his lap and tell stories. Mostly, the stories were from Russian folklore, but the ones young Natasha enjoyed were those about Russian history. She had been captivated by her father’s voice, telling heroic tales of czars and emperors, leading their troops into battle, defeating the enemy and saving Mother Russia from the invading hordes. Natasha smiled. To this day, she had no idea if the stories had been true, but it made no difference. The story was not important. It only served as the backdrop to spend time with her father, her Papa.

  Natasha tilted her head back and let the sun’s rays shine on her face. The warmth felt good. Even though the calendar showed that spring had come to Moscow, the warmer temperatures were slow to follow. It had been a brutal winter with record cold temperatures and snowfall. An overnight snowstorm had dropped a few more inches. Piles of snow still dotted the landscape, reminders of where the wind had made huge drifts over the winter. She could not remember there being a colder winter in her lifetime. She lifted the collar of her short-length fur coat around her neck and shoved her hands into the pockets.

  A few minutes later, her hand vibrated. She retrieved a cell phone. Her heart beat faster. She slid her right thumb across the phone’s screen and turned her head swiftly to the right to throw her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “Volkov…da — Yes.” She listened for a few seconds. “YA na moyem puti — I’m on my way.” Stowing the phone, Natasha gave her father’s headstone one more look, her eyes settling on the last line: ‘Predannyy Muzh i Lyubyashchiy Otets — Devoted Husband and Loving Father.’ She did not want to leave her papa, but she had work to do.

  Natasha spun around on the heels of her boots and trudged down the slope toward her waiting vehicle, her pace slow and methodic. The slope leveled off. Her mind shifted from her father to her job, and her strides grew longer and her pace quickened. With each step, the pull-tabs on her boots tapped against the metal zipper. She opened the door of her dark gray UAZ Patriot, a four-door, four-wheel drive, sport utility vehicle. Pulling up her skirt slightly, she climbed inside the SUV. Once inside, Natasha stared straight ahead. She took a deep breath and let it out. She forced herself to focus on her destination, her assignment. Having left the engine of the SUV running, she put the transmission into ‘drive’ and sped away.

  Chapter 2: Assault

  The wheels of the Patriot rolled to a stop. Through the windshield, Natasha spied a house in the distance. The structure was a simple and neglected one-story residence. Smoke rose from the chimney on the far left side. A small car was parked in the driveway. The vehicle’s condition matched that of the house. Getting out of her vehicle, she went to the rear and swung open the door to the luggage compartment, revealing a cache of weapons and tactical gear. She removed her coat and threw it inside before picking up a bulletproof vest. Standing, she noticed Sergei at the corner of the Patriot.

  Sergei Gagarin was a member of the Spetsnaz (Special Forces) of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation (FSB). He was a ruggedly handsome man, although his features were hidden by the tactical gear he wore. He was three inches over six-feet tall and weighed two-hundred and twenty-five pounds. His shoulders were broad and his body was well sculpted. From behind his goggles, Sergei stared at her. His deep blue eyes met her blue eyes. He adjusted the strap attached to his SR-3M Vikhr rifle.

  Natasha and Sergei had been dating for the last two years. Their relationship had been great from the beginning; however, since the death of her father, they had begun arguing more. Usually, the arguments started over small matters before escalating to full-blown fights.

  Last week, Natasha had told Sergei she had wanted to take some time to be alone. She needed to sort things out. The death of her father had been difficult, and she was slipping deeper and deeper into an anger-induced way of life. To make matters worse, her job was demanding more and more of her time.

  Natasha was an FSB Agent, specializing in counter-terrorism, defending Russia from terrorist attacks. Over the past several months, there had been numerous assaults across the country. Citizens were terrified, never knowing when, or where, the next attack would occur. Natasha had been working overtime tracking down a serial bomber, who had exploded bombs at many locations, in and around Moscow, in the last three months. Sergei had called to inform her that a tip had come in, placing the bomber at this house. His team was in position, waiting for the order to storm the house.

  “YA dumayu, chto vy dolzhny sidet' eto odin iz — I think you should sit this one out.” Bracing for the backlash, Sergei’s muscles contracted.

  Natasha glared at him. He was trying to protect her. As far as she was concerned, they were not dating anymore and her personal welfare was no longer his concern. Pointing her finger at him, she opened her mouth to speak, but stopped. Afraid of what she may say, she kept her thoughts to herself. She finished attaching the straps on her protective vest. “Bez shansov — No chance.” Her voice left no doubt she was angry. She picked up her SR-3M Vikhr, pulled back on the bolt and saw a round in the chamber. Releasing the bolt, she removed the magazine and made sure it was full.

  Sergei did not have time to get into an argument with her that would most likely turn into a shouting match. He had a mission to complete and the other members of his team were relying on him to have his head in the game. He ogled Natasha from head to toe. “Vy
deystvitel'no dumayete, chto vy odety dlya etogo — Do you really think you’re dressed for this?” He made no effort to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  With more force than necessary, Natasha slammed the magazine into the rifle and examined her clothing. She was wearing a black bulletproof vest over a tight red knit sweater dress. The hem of the dress fell three inches above her knee. Black knee boots with chunky three-inch heels completed the outfit. She knew her clothing was not appropriate for an assault, but she had taken part in other operations and her heels and dress had been much higher.

  Seeing the look on her face, Sergei made an appeal to her sensibility. “Pust' moi lyudi pnut' v dveryakh. Kogda vse yasno, mesto vse tvoye — Let my men kick in the doors. When everything is clear, the place is all yours.”

  Natasha relented. The last thing she wanted to do was put his men at risk. She nodded her head and held out her hand, flexing her fingers. “Dayte mne naushnika — Give me an earpiece.” She put her rifle inside the SUV, before removing her vest and tossing it alongside the rifle.

  Sergei handed her an earpiece and started jogging toward the house, two team members at his side. He gave commands over the radio. Over his shoulder, he heard Natasha call out to him.

  “Byt' ostorozhen — Be careful.”

  Sergei smiled. Maybe not all is lost between us.

  Standing near the left-rear corner of the SUV, Natasha drew back her hair and tucked the tiny communication device into her ear. She heard Sergei’s commands, while watching him and his team approach the front door. She folded her arms across her chest and rubbed the backs of her upper arms. The heels of her boots rubbed against each other, while she shifted her weight back and forth. She saw Sergei give hand signals to the men near him. The teams were preparing to breach both doors to the house, simultaneously. Natasha felt a chill run down her back. She lowered her head and realized she was standing in the cold, wearing only a dress and boots. Leaning to the right, her left foot came off the ground and the fingertips of her right hand touched the collar of her coat. Before she could close her fingers, a loud blast pierced her eardrums and the ensuing shockwave slammed into her chest like a sledgehammer.

  Already off-balance, Natasha was thrown backwards several feet. She landed on her back in a spread-eagle position. Her ears ringing, she laid on the ground, staring at the sky. Particles of debris floated down around her. A hot ember, the size of a quarter, fell on her left thigh and burned a hole through her nylons. She felt nothing. It took more than a minute, but the ringing in her ears subsided. She sat up. The house was reduced to rubble. Sections of it were on fire. Black smoke rose into the air. Her senses returning, she felt searing pain in her leg. She swiped away the hot ember. There was a large hole in her nylons. The skin—usually milky white in color—was bright red. She gathered a handful of snow and held it on her thigh. She closed her eyes and sighed. A few seconds later, she opened them to the sight of the house in shambles. A teardrop ran down her cheek and her voice cracked when she whispered, “Sergei.”

  Minutes later, her legs began shaking and the muscles in her butt contracted. The coldness of the damp snow had seeped through her dress and nylons. Like an ocean wave, crashing against the shore, the cold ran up her body, until she was shivering from head to toe. Convulsing, she let her body fall backward. Lying on the snowy ground, she saw images of Sergei and her father flash across her mind. Fatigue set in and her eyelids drooped before closing. I’m so tired.

  Chapter 3: Oval Office

  July 8th, 8:43 a.m.; the Oval Office (the White House)

  Aaron Hardy sat on the end of the couch in the Oval Office. The President of the United States, James Conklin, sat across from him in a wooden, straight back chair with leather trim. The men were discussing the details of the job the President had offered Hardy, which he accepted.

  Hardy was wearing a gray suit, white shirt and a red tie. A handkerchief in his left breast pocket matched the color of his tie, which was held in place by a gold clip. A collar bar under the knot of the tie drew the points of his shirt collar closer together. The suit fit his five-feet, eleven-inch, one hundred and eighty-five-pound frame, perfectly. One week ago, he celebrated his thirtieth birthday and was in the best physical shape of his life.

  Hardy had enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps when he was eighteen years old. He spent the first four years of his career serving overseas, primarily in Iraq, before becoming a member of the Second Marine Special Operations Battalion, headquartered at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. For the next five years, he was involved in direct-action, special reconnaissance and counter-terrorism missions, until Colonel Franklin Ludlum asked him to take command of a team and conduct top-secret missions all over the world.

  One week ago, at the start of the Fourth of July holiday weekend, Hardy’s teammates had been killed in an explosion at a tavern in Washington D.C. Hardy was the only survivor. During the next twenty-four hours, he tracked down those who were responsible for killing his men. With the help of Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he was able to bring the perpetrators to justice.

  The President arranged a meeting with Hardy after discovering what he had done. During the meeting, the President offered Hardy a top-secret job, working directly for him. Hardy’s main objective was to go on the offensive against the terrorists. Since the position did not officially exist, he would operate under special rules of engagement—his own. He would do whatever was necessary, and use whatever resources he had, to stop the terrorists before they could carry out further attacks. The President’s exact words were ‘to take the fight to the terrorists.’

  “As I said earlier, you would have all the resources you need to get the job done.” The President checked his wristwatch. “I’m sick and tired of the terrorists tying our hands and forcing us to play defense. When I campaigned for this job, I told the American people I would be tough on terror. Since taking office, I’ve been wrapped up in political battles that have virtually sidelined my efforts to make real progress in this war.” The President shifted in his chair. “And, make no mistake, this is a war.”

  James Conklin was a man dedicated to serving the American people. He had served two terms as Governor of Massachusetts after he had returned home from serving his country. Conklin was a marine with the First Battalion 8th Marines and stationed in Beirut, Lebanon in 1983. He was among the 128 who were wounded when a suicide bomber detonated a truck bomb near the building serving as the barracks. Two-hundred forty-one American service members were killed. Conklin’s hero status had helped him in his campaign for the governorship. He won in a landslide victory.

  Now, at age fifty-five, he was two years into his first term. The man was in great shape for his age. His hair was gray, but showed no signs of balding. He wore a black suit with a white dress shirt. His tie was deep blue and he had a handkerchief in his left breast pocket that matched the color of his tie. Lastly, he wore a pair of black casual loafers. “Are there any—” the President started to say, but stopped when someone knocked on the door. The door to the Oval Office opened and the President’s Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Phillip Jameson, entered.

  The President stood and glimpsed his watch. “Thanks for coming, Phil. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

  “It’s not a problem, sir.” Jameson’s long strides made short order of the distance between the door and the couch. He extended his hand toward the President, who shook it before introducing Jameson to Hardy.

  “Aaron, this is my Director of the FBI, Phillip Jameson.” The President faced Jameson. “Director Jameson, I want you to meet Aaron Hardy, your newest special agent. Aaron has accepted the position you and I discussed earlier, and is eager to start as soon as possible.” After Jameson and Hardy had shaken hands, the President checked his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a press conference in fifteen minutes.” He shook Hardy’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Aaron. I’m glad to have you on
our team.” He tipped his head toward Jameson. “You’re in good hands.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  The President acknowledged Jameson. “I trust you’ll fill him in on the specifics of the position as well as the details of his first mission.”

  “Of course I will, sir.”

  “Splendid,” said the President, who patted Jameson on the back before heading toward the door, straightening his tie.

  Jameson faced Hardy, who was already sizing up his new boss. Hardy knew Jameson had played an active role in the Fourth of July events in which Hardy was involved. He studied Jameson, taking in his demeanor and physical characteristics.

  The fifty-year-old FBI Director was physically fit, regularly lifting weights and jogging. He was five-feet, eleven inches tall and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. His work attire was always the same—black suit, white shirt, red tie. He changed the shade and print of the tie, but it was always red. His shoes were black and always polished—no smudges. His clothing was a projection of what you could expect from him. He was a man who brought to bear rock-steady leadership and decision-making skills and always backed his agents. He was also quick to get to the point.

  “Let’s get started.” Jameson tossed a manila file folder onto the coffee table before sitting in the chair the President had vacated. “Before we go over your first mission, we need to discuss the details of your employment.”

  Sitting, Hardy nodded his head and leaned forward.

  “Officially, your position does not exist as the President outlined it.” Jameson reclined and crossed his legs. “You’ll be working for the FBI and have an office in Washington D.C. Your title will reflect your cover story. You’ll be acting as a consultant, advising corporations, foreign nationals, other nations…you name it…on matters pertaining to terrorism.” Jameson spread his hands apart. “Keep it broad and vague when you have to discuss your credentials.” He wagged his finger. “That reminds me. Here’s your badge.” He handed Hardy a leather bi-fold with an FBI badge and documentation with his photo and official title.