Jake found his tongue. "Why?"
"That's the sixty-four-dollar question. The thinking at the White House is that the hijacking has something to do with SuperAegis. Maybe they're going to torpedo the launch platform or something."
"A CIA team?" Jake exclaimed, still trying to digest the news. "These guys didn't just rip off a boat because they had nothing better to do on a Saturday morning. Who is behind this?"
Flap Le Beau squared his shoulders. He was a muscular, fit black man, several inches over six feet, whose thinning hair was turning frosty. He and Jake had flown together when they both were junior officers, years ago during a carrier cruise to the western Pacific as a member of a marine A-6 squadron. Born in a ghetto, Flap Le Beau had found a home in the corps, which was the perfect place for a natural leader who knew how and when to fight and loved to do it. He was an expert with rifle and mortar and the best man alive with a knife.
"We are going to find out," Flap said now. "The president handed me the job of investigating the hijacking. He thought the navy shouldn't investigate itself, so he asked me to do it." He glanced at Stuffy Stalnaker, who was lost in his own thoughts.
He's probably trying to figure out how many people are going to get court-martialed when the dust settles, Jake thought. Hell, he's probably wondering if he is going to be one of them.
"Admiral Stalnaker mentioned your name," Flap continued, "since you were working liaison with the foreign military reps on the SuperAegis project. When I heard your name I decided I wanted your help. You know the navy, you know bullshit when you hear it."
Flap picked up a television remote and clicked it on. He channel-surfed a moment and, sure enough, found the video shot from the helicopter by the Boston television station. The officers in the room watched in silence. They said nothing as Kolnikov squirted a burst of submachine-gun fire at the chopper, and remained silent as the last of the footage showed America under way in Long Island Sound.
As the talking heads speculated, Flap said, "A disaster of the first order of magnitude." He used the remote to kill the television audio.
"This ranks right up there with California falling off into the Pacific," Stalnaker said.
"Why?" Flap asked. "Why did they steal it?"
"More to the point," Stuffy Stalnaker said heavily, "what in the name of God are they going to do with it?"
"Why did the White House staff think the hijackers are off to do the Goddard launch platform?" Jake asked.
"Because Russians headed the CIA hijack team," Stalnaker replied. "The Russian government never wanted SuperAegis. They went along because they had no choice. Maybe…" He threw a pencil across the room. "Hell, I don't know. Nobody does. Those bastards killed six Americans and stole our goddamn submarine and sailed off over the fucking horizon, bold as brass. One of the news types says the tugboat crew is missing, presumed dead. We've got a goddamn Russian Blackbeard on our hands, sailing off in a U.S. Navy warship to do God knows what. Double-crossed the spooks and stole the newest, sneakiest sub on Planet Earth right out from under our noses."
Jake was not thinking about embarrassment just now. He was thinking about a sub in the North Atlantic, that great gray ocean, deep and wide.
"Twelve cruise missiles, six live torpedoes and two practice rounds, and a SEAL minisub on the back of the boat." Stalnaker sighed. "Obviously we're doing all we can to find our lost pigboat. Our SOSUS nets are going to get a hell of a workout." SOSUS was an acronym for sound surveillance system, a network of underwater acoustic sensors on the seafloor in the open ocean and strategic straits and waterways, sensors designed to listen for submarines. "We're putting every antisubmarine asset we have east of the Mississippi and west of Suez into the North Atlantic. We're sending a battle group to guard the Goddard platform for the next few weeks. Maybe we'll get lucky — somebody will find this guy." "How probable is that, sir?" Jake asked.
"Truthfully, the chances are damned slim," CNO shot back. "I've followed the development of the America-dass for years. Losing her is an absolute disaster. She's more stealthy than we've told the press. And more capable."
"How come," Jake asked, "the Jones didn't sink America this morning when they saw what was going down?"
"The skipper wanted to. The White House said no. Apparently the thinking was that Americans might kill Americans, which would go over like a three-hundred-pound canary with Congress and the electorate. Can't go killing our own, they said, not without solid-gold verification of what's going down."
"The crypto gear, the codebooks, Revelation, the software, the weapons…" Jake ran through the list so softly that Flap Le Beau had to strain to hear. "Oh, boy."
Stalnaker merely nodded. "The president was really pissed at us. But he was outraged at the spooks. 'You people let this happen,' he raved. 'You picked these men, you trained them, now this!'' "Anybody claiming responsibility?"
"Not that I know of," Stalnaker said gloomily. Flap shook his head. "Stealing a submarine to knock off the Goddard launch platform strikes me as ridiculous," Jake Grafton said. "They went to a lot of trouble and took a huge risk. We're not going to launch any more satellites until we find out why we lost the first one. Even if we were going to, damn near anyone with a wild hair and some guts could screw up our launch with a speedboat and a scoped rifle."
"If I wanted to sabotage the launch, I'd pay a guy or gal to change a line of software code," Le Beau said thoughtfully. "One keystroke would put the rocket in the water. Hell, one keystroke probably did. That's my theory about why all the king's horses and all the king's men can't find the satellite or figure out why it didn't get into orbit."
Jake Grafton nodded. "Unless someone gets religion and confesses everything, we'll never know for sure whether the loss of that satellite was an accident or sabotage. And until the engineers can pinpoint the cause of the accident, there will be no more launches. I don't care what the politicians say, it won't happen. Someday the Goddard platform is going to be a cruise ship port of call. So why a sub?"
"Maybe they stole it to see what we've been up to in the shipyard," Stalnaker said. "We wanted theirs for the crypto and the weapons. Tit for tat. But who the hell knows? I suspect the who and why will become painfully obvious all at once."
Flap Le Beau studied his fingernails, then glanced at the CNO. "They stuck you with me when you said you weren't sure the navy could find that boat. In fact, you implied to the president and secretary of state that finding the thing would take a miracle."
"I didn't use the m word," Stalnaker protested.
"You might as well have."
Stalnaker studied his toes.
"So what do you want me to do, sir?" Jake asked Flap Le Beau.
"I want you to go to New London, see what the FBI is finding out, ask the questions they won't think to ask. I don't believe for a minute that a little band of ex — submarine jockeys on the CIA payroll thought this stunt up all by themselves. Our first job is to find out who is behind this."
"If we find out what they want, the who will take care of itself," Stuffy Stalnaker opined.
"Maybe," Flap said. "And maybe not."
"I've got a Russian houseguest this weekend," Jake said, remembering Ilin. "He's supposed to be a Russian rocket expert, but I think he's SVR. Former KGB."
Flap's eyes narrowed. His fingers beat a barely audible tattoo on his desk.
"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why don't you take him to New London with you? Try to figure out if he knows anything about this little deal."
"The minute he learns something that isn't on television, he'll tell Moscow."
"As if they don't know all about America" the commandant said scathingly. He waggled a finger at Grafton. "I want to know if the Russian spook on the SuperAegis project knew about the hijacking in advance. You get the slightest hint, let me know immediately."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Throw your weight around, Jake," said Flap Le Beau. "Get answers."
<
br /> Tommy Carmellini went to bed that night with a beautiful woman. She was one Sarah Houston, an American expatriate who resided in London. For the past six months she had returned to the United States on business for half of every month. The bed was in Car-mellini's apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. At least, Houston thought it was Carmellini's apartment. Actually it was a CIA safe house, one that Carmellini was using to woo Ms. Houston. In the line of duty, of course. She didn't know that either.
As Carmellini kissed Sarah Houston and reveled in her ripe sen-suousness, he thought about the three-month campaign that had led up to this moment. When he was told the part he was to play and shown Houston's photo, he had readily agreed. In her early thirties, with high cheekbones, startling green eyes, and shoulder-length brown hair, Sarah Houston was a striking presence.
"It's nice work if you can get it," his boss commented, a little wistfully, Carmellini thought.
They had met "accidentally" several times as they left the building, a condominium townhouse, for early morning runs, so they ended up running together. As the weeks passed those runs led to Sunday sandwiches, a televised ball game at a sports bar, then several movies with ice cream after, and finally a formal dinner date at a terrific Italian restaurant on the East Side in the Fifties.
Getting to know her had been a pleasure, yet a bittersweet one. She was a delightful human being, and he had known the relationship was going nowhere! She had a wicked sense of humor, a quick wit, and a nice laugh. Tonight, when he finally unlocked the door to his apartment and led her inside, she had looked at him so wonderfully that for a moment there Tommy Carmellini felt like a real jerk.
In truth, he was a jerk. He let the CIA trap him into this.. well, okay, he got himself into this fix by being who he was. So being Tommy Carmellini made him a jerk.
Knowing that, he smiled at her anyway.
When they showered together he remembered his boss's comment about nice work.
If she was surprised that Carmellini was solid as a brick she didn't show it, though she repeatedly ran her hands over his arms and shoulders. He told her he was a rock climber, which was true. She had seen the free weights in the apartment, knew he ran… she just didn't know how much he worked out or how far his runs took him.
At dinner she told him her life's story, the parts of it he hadn't heard before. It had the little family triumphs and tragedies, a couple of failed love affairs, college, wise and foolish friends, stupid vacations, an interesting job, and she told it well, paused in all the right places, made him laugh along with her.
His turn came after dinner, as they walked the sidewalks of New York. They had talked about the stolen submarine earlier in the evening and had moved on to other subjects. Most of his story was historical truth, as far as it went, right up until he was about eleven years old. Then he told her the story he told anyone who questioned him closely. He omitted the sneaking around, picking locks, peeping, the fun of getting into and out of places without anyone else knowing. Nor did he mention the safecracking and burglary that came later. Of getting caught he said not a word. He failed to mention the fact that he worked for the CIA.
For the first time in a long time Tommy Carmellini felt a twinge of conscience about the lies — he never ever told the truth about himself to anyone, male or female, business or pleasure.
When he finished his tale, she was silent for a moment, walking with her head down, one arm wrapped around his. Then she said, "One of the girls in the apartment above mine said that you work for the CIA."
Carmellini snorted, trying to hold in the laughter. That comment was so hilariously funny! He snorted again, trying not to burst out laughing.
"That's a good one," he said, his eyes twinkling, shaking his head. "Wait until the folks at the firm hear that one."
"I promised my mother that I would never date a lawyer," she told him solemnly.
They talked about lawyers, about what egotists most of them were, the rest of the way back to the building.
Inside his apartment he poured her some wine. When it was obvious that she was going to drink only about half the glass, he led her into the bedroom, undressed her, and took her to the shower. After that they fell into bed in each other's arms.
She was a great kisser. He let himself go, let the fire of her warm him to the core.
Then she went to sleep. One second she was there, then she was limp, breathing deeply, sound asleep. Carmellini put his fingers on her wrist, took her pulse.
Strong, steady and slow. Okay.
Tommy Carmellini waited a moment, then got out of bed. He donned a robe and made a telephone call.
Five minutes later the doorbell rang. Carmellini checked the peephole, then unlocked the door and admitted the two men who were standing there.
"How much did she have?"
"Half a glass."
The man's name was Joe May. He opened a valise, removed a hypodermic needle, drew twenty cc's from a bottle, then went into the bedroom. In half a minute he was back. He checked his watch. "Five minutes," he said. "Then she'll be deeply under. She won't remember a thing."
The other man was named Fernando. No other name that Carmellini had ever heard. Just Fernando. "When we're done, you can have her, big guy," he said with a sneer. "She'll sleep for hours and won't remember a thing. This is your chance."
"Did your mother ever tell you that you are a foul little asshole?"
Fernando chuckled and began unpacking the two cases made out of aircraft-grade aluminum that he had carried in.
As Fernando and Joe May set up the equipment in the bedroom, Fernando peeled back the sheet to look over the merchandise.
Carmellini's hand shot out. He wrapped his fist around Fernando's wrist and squeezed.
"Jesus, you son of a bitch, you're going to break my wrist." Fernando went to his knees as Carmellini forced his elbow down.
"Come on, Tommy," Joe May said as he worked with the electrical cords. "He's an asshole. Let it go at that."
Carmellini covered up Houston as Fernando massaged his wrist. "You almost broke my wrist," he said in amazement.
"Shut up and help," May told him.
Working carefully and as quickly as he dared, May took impressions of all ten of Sarah Houston's fingers in a soft clay. Two of the fingers he did twice. Only after he examined every impression with a magnifying glass did he let Fernando pack them away.
They rigged a tripod with an arm that extended out at a right angle. On the arm Joe May attached a sophisticated camera and two bright lights.
Carmellini watched as Joe May meticulously measured the distance from the camera's lens to Houston's right eye, which Fernando was holding open. After a series of photographs of both eyes had been taken, the first camera was removed from the arm and another camera, one with a much different lens, was attached. This camera was lowered to within a half inch of Houston's right eye. May took another series of photographs, then rearranged the camera over Houston's left eye and shot another series.
Finally May snapped the lights off and took down the camera and tripod and repacked them in their cases. "We've got it," he told Carmellini, who had been in the kitchen going through the contents of Houston's purse. "Let her sleep. She'll come out of it in about five hours, won't remember a thing."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"This is your chance," Fernando muttered at Tommy, who ignored him.
Five minutes later the two men were gone. Carmellini turned on the lights, checked the apartment to ensure that all traces of the two had been eliminated, then went back to the kitchen table and studied the contents of Houston's purse one more time.
In her wallet she had British and American currency, a couple of hundred-dollar traveler's checks, credit cards, a California driver's license, and eleven business cards from people all over Europe, ten of whom were men. A checkbook: she had a balance of 1,744 pounds… maybe, since it didn't appear that she ever bothered to reconcile the account. Let's see
, nope, no checks for outrageous amounts. The usual feminine hygiene and cosmetic items. Seven photos, mostly of women, two of Houston with men. Carmellini didn't recognize either of them. Two ATM cards, both in paper envelopes with her secret PIN numbers written on the envelopes in ink. Bits of paper torn from an appointment book bearing telephone numbers and addresses. A small address book filled with women's names — first names only, most of them — addresses, telephone numbers, some E-mail addresses. A few stray keys, a button, an unwrapped piece of hard candy that was partially stuck to the bottom of the purse, and two paper clips. He sighed and carefully repacked all this stuff in her purse.
Finally he turned off the lights in the apartment and crawled into bed beside Houston. She was breathing deeply, totally relaxed. "Sorry, kid," he told her. "With you it would have been good." He fluffed her pillow and made her as comfortable as he could. He kissed her once, then stretched out and tried to go to sleep himself.
It was after midnight on Sunday morning when the Pentagon helicopter dropped Jake at the hospital helo pad in Delaware where it had picked him up. Callie was waiting in the car.
Jake kissed her, thanked her for coming.
"We spent the day watching television," Callie said. "If Ilin knew about the hijacking before it happened, I didn't get a hint of it. He looked as stunned as Toad. And probably me."
Jake grunted. He had expected no less.
"Have they found the sub yet?" Callie asked.
"No."
"Why did they want you in Washington?"
"I'm supposed to help look for the thing."
"People are frightened, Jake. I've never seen professional news-people panic like they have today. That congresswoman, Samantha Strader, has been all over the news, demanding that all American submarines be recalled to port and kept there until the American people are satisfied with the navy's security measures. Other people want to permanently retire all the submarines."
"We deserve it, I guess," Jake said. He couldn't ever remember being so ashamed of his service.
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