Code Name Antares

by Jamie Fredric

  Kalinin glanced at the list. “I will familiarize myself with these.” He refolded the paper, slipping it into his leather jacket.

  Vazov handed him the envelope. “This will be your first assignment.”

  Kalinin nodded. He removed the papers from the envelope. Three sets, each set stapled. “Were these left at the same location?”

  “No. Each set of papers was retrieved from different ‘drop’ sites.”

  Kalinin examined photos and every page. As far as specifications, very little was listed.

  All the while Vazov kept his eyes on him, watching to see if there was any form of emotion. But there was none. The younger man was completely in control.

  “Well, Nicolai, do you have an idea on what that weapon could be? Why have the Americans labeled it ‘Top Secret’?”

  Kalinin dropped the envelope on the seat. He turned slightly, looking at Vazov. “There is not much to go on, but I would say it has to do with some type of laser technology. But since it is classified as top secret, there is obviously something very special about it. Do you know exactly how many weapons are being ‘offered’?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And has a meeting been set up with the individual, ‘Primex’?”

  “Moscow has just approved our request to proceed. Misha will meet him at whatever location and time he has chosen. I can only assume that is when details will be given about the ‘transfer’ of the weapon. At least that is what I am anticipating. He indicated there may be another meeting afterward. Why he is insisting on separate meetings, I do not know.

  “As soon as I return to the embassy, I will have Misha go to the location and make the mark. Then we must wait until we are contacted.”

  “Am I correct in assuming that once the meeting takes place, I will be in control of the mission?”

  Vazov smiled slightly. “You will still report to me while you are here in the U.S., but yes, the plan for the mission is entirely in your hands.”

  “And what about funds, sir? Equipment will be needed, payoffs will . . .”

  “I will give you enough cash that should see you through this assignment. Remember, when it is time for you to move the weapon or weapons, you will have access to Russia’s jet at Dulles International Airport.”

  “From what I understand, sir, in order to give the ‘merchandise’ diplomatic immunity, official papers must be filled out.”

  “That is correct. I will give you a seal and a special stamp. You must remember that each package must be clearly marked ‘diplomatic pouch.’”

  “I understand,” Kalinin nodded. “And once I have secured the weapons, will you contact our comrades in Moscow?”

  “The decision was already made that you will deliver them to Moscow. Then, once in Moscow, arrangements will be made for transferring half to the Afghans, however many that may be. My contact in Kabul is Major Zubarev. He is dealing with the Afghans.” Vazov detected something in the face of the younger Russian. “What is it?”

  “You mentioned our aircraft at Dulles, and I realize at this point we do not know how many weapons will be made available, nor do we have an exact date when this will happen, but. . .”

  “What is your concern?”

  “My concern only pertains to multiple weapons, perhaps ten or more, and if that is the case, I believe we should not put all the weapons aboard the aircraft. If anything happened. . .”

  “I understand. And your suggestion is?”

  Kalinin hesitated, letting the idea roll around his brain, confident that it was plausible. “We have cargo ships traveling up and down the American coast, do we not?” Vazov nodded. “Do we have any carriers operating in or close to the Mediterranean?”

  “Two. Why?”

  “As soon as we learn of a date for the ‘transfer’ of the weapons, would you be able to put the captain of a cargo vessel on alert?”

  “You want to deliver the weapons to that ship? But how?”

  “I will find a way. Then, once the cargo ship is within range of the carrier’s helicopters, the weapons can be picked up and delivered to Kabul. I will personally make the delivery to Moscow.”

  Vazov could only wonder how Kalinin was able to put this plan together in only a matter of minutes. “I will see what I can do.” He reached inside his jacket. “You may need this. Do you know what it is?”

  Kalinin took the envelope then removed a small book, barely two by three inches. He flipped through the tiny code book. “Yes, sir. I remember my parents using one. It is a ‘one-time pad.’” A one-time pad is a type of encryption almost impossible to crack. Characters from plain text are encrypted by the use of a character from a secret random key (pad) of the same length as the plain text. This results in a cipher text. Each code page is used one time. The code is printed on sheets of chemically treated paper called “flash paper.” Once heated it converts to nitrocellulose, then burns almost instantly, leaving no ash. The two men had exactly the same book.

  He put the book in his pocket. “Once I have the weapons that are going to Moscow, I will write a coded message on page eight of the Washington Post, and leave it under the embassy gate. You can have the seal and documents left at one of our drop sites.”

  “Why not leave the message at a drop site, Nicolai?”

  “I believe this would be the fastest way, without your men having to make several trips looking for a message.”

  “It appears you have thought of everything, Nicolai.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Vazov indicated with a thumb over his shoulder. “I have large canvas pouches in the trunk. I am hoping you will be able to use them for the weapons.”

  “If they are not large enough, I am sure I can ‘break’ down the weapons.”

  “Oh, I kept your Russian passport.” He patted his inside pocket. “I will see that it shows you are a diplomatic courier and ensure it has proper date stamps, coinciding with countries you have ‘visited.’ One of the men will leave it our drop site.

  “Remember, Nicolai, unless there is an absolute emergency, do not phone the embassy.”

  Kalinin got out, then leaned in. “Of course, sir. I will only use the means discussed.”

  “Good night, Nicolai.”

  “Good night, Mr. Ambassador.” He closed the door, went to the Camaro, and slid behind the wheel. He started the engine, but waited until the Mercedes was out of sight before he turned on headlights.

  As he drove through the park, he remembered his parents. He hadn’t thought much about them over the last several years. But talking about them briefly with the ambassador made him remember the years he had with them. Maybe for the first time in his life, he was grateful they had been his parents.

  *

  Nicolai Kalinin was born one month prior to his parents leaving Kursk, Russia. Traveling under false American documents with the last name “Broyce,” they were smuggled into Geneva, Switzerland. For the next three years the Kalinins worked at the International School of Geneva. The jobs were menial, but they established themselves as reliable, compassionate people. When he was three, they moved to the U.S., settling in a small town outside Charlottesville, Virginia. They were welcomed into an up-and-coming community, being treated like any other young American family. The mother and father held decent jobs, the family attended church on Sundays, and they supported their young son in his endeavors. They were devoted parents, preparing their son for his future in America.

  Attending public schools with the name “James Broyce,” he excelled in math and science, participated in sports, and developed a love of baseball. After graduating high school, he joined the Navy, and served five years as an Interior Communications electrician. ICs directed and coordinated the installation, maintenance and repair of interior communications systems on ships and at shore facilities, including communication systems, indicating and navigation systems, visual landing aids for aircraft, and alarm, safety, and warning systems. After his final tour of duty, he moved back to Ch
arlottesville. Taking advantage of the GI bill, he attended the University of Virginia, earning a B.S. in Electrical Engineering.

  With the deep level of his cover, and a 4.0 grade point average, he was confident he’d be hired by a defense contractor. He applied for a college internship program with ZXR Corporation, and began the program one week after graduation. Over time he was promoted to different grade levels, and was always willing to take assignments aboard Navy ships, training, repairing, upgrading systems.

  He worked day after day, year after year, never knowing when he’d be called upon to serve Russia, or what he’d be asked to do. His day and time had finally come.

  Chapter 4

  March

  Iwo Jima Memorial

  Monday - Day 1

  1950 Hours

  The temperature hovered just above forty-one degrees, as familiar March winds blew across Virginia and D.C. at thirteen knots, gusting to twenty. As usual, traffic along N. Mead Street was still heavy, but most occupants inside cars hardly took notice of the Memorial.

  A door to the Chevy SUV closed. Grant screwed down his baseball cap, and zipped up his black windbreaker. Shoving his hands into the pockets, he started pacing back and forth along the lighted walkway behind the SUV. The call had come in on the special phone earlier in the day. No specifics had been given, only that he and Adler were to be at the Memorial by 2000 hours. More than one possibility ran through his mind.

  Adler sat in the rear passenger seat, drinking a last mouthful of warm black coffee. He crushed the empty paper cup then stuck it in the door pocket. “There’s more coffee in the thermos, Ken, Mike, and a couple bologna sandwiches in the bag.”

  “Thanks, LT,” Ken Slade responded.

  Sipping on his coffee, Novak looked in the rearview mirror watching Grant pace. Slade kept an eye out for any approaching vehicles.

  Adler zipped up his old Navy khaki jacket before opening the door. He caught up to Grant. “Well, Skipper, has that brain of yours come up with any reasonable explanation why we’ve been ‘invited’ here?”

  Grant stopped then leaned against the tailgate, and shook his head. “I can come up with plenty, Joe, but . . .”

  “Boss,” Slade interrupted, as he poked his head out the window. “There’s a car comin’.”

  Grant and Adler walked along the side of the SUV, seeing headlights swing around the curve, lighting up them and the SUV.

  The tan, 1978 Dodge Aspen was an unmarked vehicle previously owned by the Maryland State Police. The driver pulled into a parking space and shifted into “Park.” He switched on an overhead light, then made a notation on a clipboard. Laying the clipboard on the seat, he got out and walked to the Chevy.

  He approached Grant and Adler. “Captain Stevens?” he asked with his eyes going from one to the other.

  “I’m Grant Stevens,” Grant responded, extending a hand.

  “I’m Staff Sergeant Stu Reilly, sir, your driver for the evening.” Reilly returned Grant’s handshake. Even though he was active duty, as a member of the White House motor pool, and on standby twenty-four/seven, Reilly wore civilian clothes. He was about 5’8”, with a slim build, and short, thick brown hair.

  He turned to Adler. “Lieutenant Adler?”

  “That’s me,” Adler nodded, offering his hand.

  “It’s routine for me to ask for your IDs, sirs.”

  Both Grant and Adler took out their wallets, then flipped them open. Grant noticed the staff sergeant had a weapon in a side holster. He and Adler left their .45s in the SUV.

  Reilly took each wallet, and shined the light from a small flashlight on each State Department and retired military ID. “All right, sirs. It looks like we’re ready for departure.” He opened the rear passenger door. Adler slid in.

  “Would you mind if I rode up front?” Grant asked.

  “Not at all, sir.” He opened the front door.

  “Wait one,” Grant said, as he turned around. “Mike, Ken, head back to Eagle 8. Contact the rest of the team and put them on standby as a ‘just in case.’ Matt should be on his way back from California. Make sure you contact him. I’ll call you when we’re ready for retrieval, which I assume will be somewhere in D.C.”

  “Roger that, boss,” Novak responded, before starting the engine.

  Grant got in the Dodge. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Reilly unhooked a mike from the Motorola Micor Radio attached under the dash. In the trunk was a multi-band transmitter, with two whip antennas attached outside.

  “Reilly calling guard house. Over.”

  “Go ahead. Over.”

  “Departing with two guests. ETA ninety-minutes. Out.”

  *

  Traffic leaving D.C. was still heavy. Oncoming headlights remained constant, while in front of the Dodge, red taillights became a blur. Once Reilly turned on Highway 270, traffic thinned. He pressed the accelerator and picked up speed, but was mindful of staying within the posted speed limit.

  The three men kept up a steady conversation, talking military most of the time. Grant noticed that not once did Reilly take his eyes from the road, except to glance in the rear- and side view mirrors, nor did he question the purpose of this evening’s trip.

  “Excuse me a minute, sirs.” He reached for the mike again, reporting ETA in forty-five minutes. He’d make the same call three more times.

  Thirty-five minutes later, they were on Park Central Road, a dark, winding blacktop, leading deeper into Catoctin Mountain Park. Posted at the entrance was a sign: Closed December - March. Official Vehicles Only.

  With high beams lighting the way, the vehicle eventually turned right onto an unmarked road. Signs warned they were entering a U.S. military installation with restricted access.

  Turning off the high beams, Reilly left parking lights on and slowed down. Bright overhead spotlights provided enough light at the guard house, where two Marines waited at the entrance, with one stationed at the exit. All had rifle straps slung over their shoulders, and weapons in side holsters.

  Two guards stepped closer as Reilly rolled down his window. He was a familiar figure, having made this same trip many times over the past six months.

  Grant and Adler handed over their IDs. The Marine leaned toward the open windows, comparing the two faces to the IDs. As he did, the second guard casually walked around the vehicle looking in windows. The inspection was made only in a cursory manner, since all details had been delivered earlier in the day. The guards knew who and how many to expect.

  Returning the IDs, the guard gave a quick salute, then waved them through.

  No more than fifty yards past the guardhouse was a perimeter road that circled the entire property, with a chain link fence outside it. Just beyond was a sign: Camp David.

  Chapter 5

  The Dodge started up a slight incline, leading to the front of Holly Cabin. Nestled in the trees, the one story, gray-colored building was once the original Laurel Lodge where presidents held conferences and greeted dignitaries from throughout the world. Small pole lamps lit up a blacktop path leading to a screened porch. Interior lights glowed from every window. Smoke, rising from a brick chimney, permeated the air.

  A Secret Service agent, wearing a black raincoat, came from inside the screened porch. He spoke softly into his wrist mike. “Visitors have arrived.” Posting himself on the path, he stood with his hands folded in front of him.

  Reilly got out, nodded toward the agent, then hurried around to the passenger side, opening both front and rear doors. “The agent will escort you from here, sirs. I’ll be waiting whenever you’re ready to leave.”

  “Thanks, Staff Sergeant,” Grant said. “C’mon, Joe.”

  The two walked up the path, both curious and anxious about the upcoming meeting with President Andrew Carr.

  With only a brief nod, the agent led them onto the porch, knocked, then opened the cabin door. Once Grant and Adler had entered, he posted himself directly outside the door.

  The President greeted them from a
cross the room. “Captain! Lieutenant! Great to see you both!” He walked toward them with his arm extended.

  “Mr. President,” Grant said, smiling, as he shook Carr’s hand, returning the firm grip.

  “Mr. President,” Adler said.

  “Take off your jackets. Just hang them in that closet, then join me,” Carr said, motioning with a hand toward a couch. Normally dressed in a suit, this evening the President wore a pair of dark blue slacks, an open-collar white shirt, and a dark, red cardigan sweater.

  A wood fire blazed in the stone fireplace opposite the couch. A brass, three-panel folding screen was on the brick hearth, keeping burning embers at bay.

  As Grant and Adler walked to the couch, Carr said, “Sit, please.” The two men complied. “‘Captain’ and ‘lieutenant’ are pretty formal, gentlemen. Would you mind if I called you ‘Grant’ and ‘Joe’?”

  Grant nodded. “We wouldn’t mind at all, sir.”

  Carr pointed to a tray on the coffee table that held a pitcher of water, glasses, and a bucket of ice. “How about something to drink? Maybe some coffee.”

  “Not for me, but thanks,” Grant responded.

  Adler followed Grant’s lead. “No thanks, sir.”

  Carr sat on a wooden, hand-made rocker. His eyes went from Grant to Adler as he spoke. “Gentlemen, let me thank you again for the remarkable job you did with the China incident. God only knows how many lives you saved, including the Vice President’s. By the way, have you talked with or do you know how those two SEALs are doing?”

  Grant responded. “We haven’t spoken to them personally, but understand they’re with their Team, ready for another mission.”

  “Typical for you SEALs, right?” Carr laughed.

  “Yes, sir. Always ready,” Grant responded.

  Carr rocked back and forth slowly, with an expression that changed almost immediately. “I’m sorry you had to come out here, but I felt this was the safest place for us to discuss a . . . situation.”