5 - Choker: Ike Schwartz Mystery 5

by Frederick Ramsay

  Ike released the talk key and continued his inspection of the pit and its contents. If he could do it somehow, his job was to disable the hardware in a way as to make it appear as though a failure to fire was accidental.

  On the bay side of the pit, the terrorists had dug a two-foot-deep trench and fitted it with a commercial sump pump, complete with a float on a long metal arm that triggered the pump when it rose to a certain level—like a toilet tank only in reverse. Since the pit had been built below the water table, water seeped in from all sides, especially toward the bay, at a slow but regular rate. As he turned back to the pump, it turned on and pumped several gallons up through a white plastic pipe that exited the pit below the topmost edge. It must dump into the bay through the bulkhead.

  “He’s gone again, Ike. What do you need?”

  “In a while I will need a way to get out of here, but for now, have one of the SEALs sidle across the bulkhead to a position somewhere between…” he checked the roof again and made a quick calculation, “…ten to twelve feet from the end of the deck. When he’s there let me know.”

  Ike waited for what seemed an eternity.

  “Sorry to hold you up, but our friend came back. Connie had to sink to his eyebrows to stay hidden. Okay, he’s there.”

  “I’ve found a pump here that keeps this place relatively dry. Tell him to feel for water spurting from the wall somewhere in the area.”

  “Ike, I can hear you,” Connie said softly.

  Ike had been holding the float arm down to let water fill the sump. He released it and the pump kicked on.

  “Got it.”

  “Is there a flutter valve on the end, that lets the pumped water out, but keeps the bay water from pouring in?”

  “Hang on, I’ve got to move some stones…Whoa…Wait, got to hide.”

  Ike swung the light across the floor. As he expected, there were three sensors placed near the Sunburns, also employing a float device, this time on slides. The floats rose and closed a circuit at the top of the shaft to set off an alarm if the water level rose within a foot of the Sunburn’s lower fins. If Ike were to only disable the pump and let the area flood, an alarm would send the men in the house there in seconds. First, he would have to cancel the sensors.

  “I’m back, Ike. There is a valve. Not a very good one, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. If water back flows to the pump, it will hold there until the next pumping cycle.”

  “Next question. Did you hear the pump when it ran?”

  “No, but try it again.”

  Ike forced the pump.

  “No can hear.”

  “Excellent. Jam that valve open, if you can. Then, while I fiddle around down here, why don’t the three of you figure a way to get me out?”

  “Roger that.”

  “I could help,” Bunky cut in.

  “Stay off the air, Bunky.”

  Ike pulled a roll of electrician’s tape from the assortment of items fastened to his belt and taped the floats on the sensors in place. Then he plastered several layers of tape across the electrical contacts at the top of the slides, to insulate them. That would guarantee that if the floats overcame their restraints, no contact could be made and, at the same time, prevent a short circuit that might also trigger the alarm.

  “I have the valve jammed.”

  “Is that outlet above or below the high water line?”

  “Below, I can’t be sure but it might be below the low tide line as well.”

  “Good, get back out of sight. Any idea how to draw off the guard?”

  “Working on it.”

  Ike pulled the commando knife from its sheath on his “Batman belt” and carefully punched holes in the sump pump’s float. Then he reversed the blade to its saw-toothed edge, and began to work on the plastic pipe that rose to an elbow and disappeared into the bay. He only wanted to create a leak that would augment the seepage from the ground water into the pit. After a few minutes he managed to produce a steady stream of water from the pipe.

  To make sure the pump was completely disabled, he taped the float arm down as well. He made a quick survey of his handiwork, grabbed the ladder, and headed to the spot where he’d entered.

  “Any luck up there? I’d rather not be in here when they discover their precious missiles are under fifteen feet of water.”

  “We have a problem up here, Ike. Sit tight.”

  Chapter 54

  Ike repositioned the ladder, set the lower end firmly in the mud, and inspected the canvas above him.

  “What’s happening?” No answer.

  He turned and made one last check of the area. The two Sunburns, their noses angled toward the Chesapeake Bay, seemed perversely elegant. They posed a threat to the country that could only be reckoned as incalculable, yet they sat there on their angled launchers, sleek and dangerous, like twin asps, ready to strike. He unclipped the digital camera and fired off a dozen shots of the missiles, the pit, and the pump apparatus. The sump had already overflowed and water had begun to seep across the dirt floor toward the launchers.

  “Ike, we’ve moved off the bulkhead and into the bushes on the adjoining property.”

  “What happened?” Ike walked back to the Sunburns and busied himself with their aft fins.

  “We were about to chance slipping the lever under the deck for you and just then the guard walked right at us. We thought the game was up. Then, there was this noise and he turned away. You know that tractor, the guys spotted in the barn? Well it’s on its way down here.”

  “I’m coming up the ladder and will be at the edge of the deck in twenty seconds.”

  “Roger. Okay, the guard has left the deck and is walking over to the tractor. They have lights on so, no night vision left for any of them. Ike, hurry, we’re putting in the lever now.”

  Ike scampered up the ladder and rolled out from under the canvas. He felt the edge of the deck, crawled out, and away toward the water.

  “What’ll I do with this lever?”

  “Toss it in the bay. Let the tide take it away.”

  “Someone signal Bunky.”

  “Got it.”

  The bulky shape of the river boat loomed up and beached with a crunch. The four men climbed aboard.

  “Let’s go, Bunky. Chop, chop.”

  “You-all gonna have to get back to the stern. We’re aground and you sittin’ up front just pushes us deeper in the mud.”

  The men shifted sternward. Their combined weight lifted the bow free and Bunky eased the boat into the bay and turned for home.

  The men sat silently, waiting for the adrenaline rush to subside and their breathing to return to normal. Finally Charlie broke the silence.

  “What the devil were they doing with that tractor in the middle of the night?”

  “I don’t know if you noticed or not, but there’s an eye bolt on the deck near where we were working. There will be another one at the other end. They are attaching cables to those bolts and the tractor. Tomorrow night or at dawn sometime they will drag the deck away, roll up the canvas, and set up their shoot. They can’t do it in the daylight for fear someone will get curious. And they can’t do it now, lest some fly-over spot those bad boys sitting in the excavation.”

  “Please tell me the shoot won’t go as planned.”

  “Charlie, if you are correct about those things needing to dry launch, they won’t.”

  “And if I’m wrong?”

  “They will go up, then straight down into the Chesapeake Bay. I bent their guidance fins past repair.”

  Ike filled them in on the sabotage he’d performed on the pump and sensors. The SEALs gave him a high five. Charlie looked relieved. Bunky started to sing.

  ***

  The director of the CIA had positioned himself, Buddha-like, in a chair facing the door. They burst in, all smiles and roaring the last refrain of “There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” The director’s expression brought this hilarity, born of nervous energy and relief, to a screechi
ng halt.

  Buddha-like in posture, volcanic in mien, the director pointed a finger at Charlie and, in a voice just short of yelling said, “Where the Hell have you been? I told you to stay put, and you Schwartz, were to stand down and wait for the FBI.” He seemed ready to go on, but Ike interrupted him.

  “Director, you also said Paris, remember? A few things you need to know before you blow a gasket, or start your ulcer bleeding again. One, Charlie went on this operation because we needed him. Same for Connie and Whaite. We had work to do and your buddies in the White House and the Joint Chiefs weren’t bright enough, or gutsy enough, to give a nod in the right direction. If we’d waited for them…”

  Ike paused and unfastened his belt. He dropped it on the table and removed the digital camera. He slid it across the table to the red-faced director.

  “Two, you wanted absolute proof that what we believed was more than a supposition. There are photographs of the missiles in this. You can upload them to the pussies in the Whitehouse.”

  Ike worked his way into the bathroom and began removing his greasepaint.

  “Three, unless those old Sunburns have been retrofitted to wet launch, they are not going anywhere and the guys doing the launching will assume the failure was accidental. At least they are not likely to stick around to find out otherwise.”

  He stripped off his wet jumpsuit and donned a pair of olive corduroy slacks, a biscuit-colored turtleneck sweater, and loafers.

  “Four, the ball is now in your court. Now, what have you done in the last twelve hours to put the toothpaste back in the tube?” He tossed the dosimeter on the table next to the camera.

  “I was close enough to the noses of both of those things to expose this. You can check it for radiation. If it’s hot, you might want to rethink the idea of an air strike.”

  The director seemed nonplussed. He recovered. “Just a minute, Ike—”

  “No, Mr. Director, no more minutes. We busted our asses for you tonight. We were getting nothing from you—nada, zilch. The country was about to go to Hell in a hand basket, and your people wanted to be reassured, for crying out loud. Also, unless you missed it the first three times, I don’t work for you anymore and I have no desire to work for you in the future. So, if you have a complaint about my handling of this bit of business you can—”

  Charlie stepped between the two men. “We’re all a little tired and uptight. Let’s back up a little. Director, the missiles here are dead in the water, figuratively and literally. But we do have something for the FBI. Is that right, Ike?”

  “They can cordon off that property. The minute they hear that tractor start up, they need to grab every one of the bastards, before they can signal the rest of their friends, and take out the launch panel. If that yacht returns, it’s a good bet they’re planning to escape in it. Have a Coast Guard cutter standing by to haul them in.”

  The director swallowed. “You’re right. We’ve all been too close to this and you are right, Washington has a lot to answer for. Okay, I’m sorry Ike. Do you really have the damned things out of commission?”

  “As Charlie said, dead in fifteen feet of water.”

  Ike packed his small duffel and went to retrieve his toiletries from the bathroom.

  “Well, on this end,” the director said to group, “we have shifted the synchronous orbit of the Littoral Scan a few degrees. We have all four ships in view. At daybreak, we will zoom in. The minute they pop their holds open and we see the Sunburns, the Navy will sink them.”

  Ike patted his pockets and made a quick survey of the room. “Backup?”

  “Ships nearby, radar locked in, antimissile systems up and running. If they happen to get one off, we’ll shoot it down within a mile of launch.”

  Ike headed toward the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Ike stepped through the door into the night.

  “Me? I’m going home for the holidays.”

  Chapter 55

  Commander Hank Bellows, captain of the Seawolf class Connecticut, studied his target through the periscope. The old freighter looked like something from a time warp. Motionless, on a relatively calm sea, it appeared as innocuous as a cruise liner. A very rusty and seedy one at that. It was hard to believe that the brass from the CIC on down wanted it put on the bottom, no questions asked. Scuttlebutt had it that there were some very bad people on that bucket, and there was a “need to” out on it and three others like it.

  He turned to his exec and told him to take a look. The image had to be enhanced in the early predawn. The freighter, at first barely a silhouette, loomed into sharp focus. Its name, in Arabic and English script, could be seen.

  “It’s the Saifullah for sure. You have any idea why we’re putting this boat down, Captain?”

  “Fleet says it’s a target—one of the old Libertys left over from II. It’s an exercise.”

  “I thought all those old hulls were long gone, except the ones in maritime museums.”

  “That’s the story.”

  “So, tell me again. What the hell is this old piece of iron doing in our sights?”

  “All I know for sure is that we are supposed to send a fish into it. Make that four fish. The top wants to be sure.”

  “When do we do this?”

  “We’re standing by. I think any time now.”

  “Crew is on station, and the hardware is loaded and ready. Actually they’re pretty pumped.”

  “Open the doors, Mr. Banning.”

  “Doors open, aye. It’s not every day we get to sink something, even to practice. You did say exercise?”

  “That’s what I said. You know how command works—need to know and all that.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy exercise as the official story. As the man says, what’s the story behind the story?”

  “My former roomie at the Academy runs SEAL team four. He tells me that the people on this target were responsible for taking out a guy named Reynolds, a class behind us at the Academy. He served on the Jimmy Carter a couple years back. He’s one of us.”

  “No shit, the Carter?”

  “What he said.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing for sure, but if you listen real hard to the com chatter, you’d swear we are only one of a small fleet of intercepts out to get this ship and, I think, at least three more like it.”

  “Jesus. Why don’t we just surface and blow this one away with an S to S missile?”

  “That’s the funny part. The orders are to stay out of sight, stay quiet, when told to, shoot and leave the area at flank.”

  “Follow up run if, God forbid, we miss?”

  “With four in the water, that’s not likely, but nope, that’s covered somewhere else.”

  “There are more of us out here?”

  “Like I said, chatter sounds like ten or more here, surface I think, and maybe three times that number around the continent. It’s hard to tell. With all that, you can bet your ass this ain’t practice. Give me a range and speed.”

  ***

  The sun, not yet above the horizon, lighted the shoreline a dim gray-green. Mist, more like low-lying fog, drifted across the cleared area near the bay’s edge. The tractor’s large diesel coughed to life, sending a puff of carbon black smoke skyward. The driver eased it into gear, and the cables that stretched from it to the decking snapped taut. The man who’d been watching them moved to each eyebolt on the deck and inspected them. Satisfied they would hold, he turned and signaled the tractor’s driver, who eased out the clutch. The big tires bit into the sandy soil and the deck began to slide away from the water.

  ***

  Lights were on in the hut that the briefing had indicated held the missile firing control. FBI Special Agent Karl Hedrick, clad in a black tactical jumpsuit and web belt, and armed with a silenced nine-millimeter pistol, kicked in the door. Before it could recoil from hitting the wall, he stepped in. In the midnight session before they’d loaded up and come to this place, they�
��d hammered at the seriousness of the operation and the possible consequences of failure. The first of the shed’s two startled occupants hesitated and then lunged for a switch on the panel in front of him. Karl shot him between the eyes. The second man, seated beside the first, swung a shotgun upward at Karl.

  Karl shot him, too, but his dead hand found the switch and threw it. Karl froze. A second passed, then another. No noise, no flash of light, no roar of rocket engines, only the distant rumble of the tractor’s motor. No launch.

  Karl’s hands began to shake. He wiped his forehead, swallowed back the gorge that rose in his throat, and keyed his microphone. “Hut clear,” he rasped, then stepped outside and threw up the two donuts and three cups of black coffee he’d had an hour previously.

  ***

  With the hut cleared, a dozen men, similarly attired in black and armed with assault rifles, materialized from the shadows and trained their weapons on the men working by the deck, which had by that time been dragged from the bulkhead at the water’s edge. Four were attempting to haul away the tarpaulin. The lead agent shouted for them to stand and put their hands in the air. He repeated the order in Arabic.

  All of the men looked startled, then dismayed, and finally furious. They made a dash toward the water. There was no other way for them to go. They’d fenced the place to keep intruders out. Now the same fence would keep them in. Staccato gunfire from the road left them the sea as their only option.

  The engines on the yacht twenty yards off shore roared to life. Its crew cut the anchor line, and the boat heeled over to speed away. The men on shore shouted and waved at it. It roared full throttle into Eastern Bay. At the same instant, the black ATF boat, now armed with twin fifty-caliber machine guns in its bow, pounded around the point to the west. The yacht’s crew foolishly began to fire at it. The machine guns shredded the yacht’s hull like tissue paper. It and its crew disappeared into the waves inside a minute. It would come to rest on the bottom not more than ten yards from the remains of Nick Reynold’s Cessna.

  Some of the men remaining on shore spun and, cursing the FBI, drew their weapons. Only three of them survived the fusillade that followed.