Black Star Bay

by T C Miller

  over when the telephone intercom had buzzed.

  He returned to the Tahoe mission and the attack that

  preceded it. The invaders were led by Rick Eichner, a local

  contractor. Still can’t believe he escaped right out from under

  our noses.

  Bill Johnson, a base employee who was also one of the

  invaders, gave them enough information to begin the search for

  the ex-Soviet spy. Unfortunately, Bill died a few days after

  being moved to a secure facility in the San Francisco Bay area. Eichner fled to Lake Tahoe and planted the device that Bart

  and the others disarmed. He had the remaining devices in his possession when he left Lake Tahoe and human remains recovered from a fiery, one-vehicle accident were identified as

  him. Unfortunately, the missing devices were not found. He assumed Benson was here to ask him if he remembered

  anything else about his encounter with Eichner. Wonder if she’s

  eaten lunch? The office door opened and the Mary Benson

  who walked in appeared even more haggard than the last time

  he saw her—less than a week ago. She may have gotten even

  less sleep than he, if that was possible.

  The NSA assumed responsibility for locating the classified

  missing devices and Benson was leading the search. She wore a

  tan pantsuit that complemented her shoulder-length dark brown

  hair and carried a matching valise. Understated gold earrings

  and a simple gold bracelet nicely finished the outfit. As usual,

  she had an intense look of concentration on her face. He crossed the room to shake her hand. “Have a seat…

  looks like you need it.” The smell of her perfume reached him

  and he wondered if it was there to conceal the lack of a timely

  shower. It didn’t matter, he was happy to see her. Now, all he

  had to do was figure out why she was there.

  SEAWIND BAY, CALIFORNIA ONE MONTH EARLIER The aging hippie made no effort to conceal his progress through the underbrush. Should’ve known better than to trust him.…Been undercover too long. His serape flapped around him as he scurried past branches that scratched his bearded face and snagged the blanket-like rug. Wire-framed glasses were ripped from his face, but he was afraid to stop long enough to search for them.

  He shoved a stubborn piece of foliage out of the way and it snapped back, hitting him in the head. He untangled his thinning red, shoulder-length hair and glanced back to see if he was still being followed. His pursuers wore gray monk-like robes that blended with the background in the fading light of day. He felt like he was in a movie set in medieval Europe.

  Fog began to swirl into the stand of trees, rising up from the ocean to fill in the space between the massive trunks of giant redwoods. The damp smell of moss and ferns on the forest floor caused him to sneeze as he ran. A gust of sea breeze opened up a narrow field of vision and he thought he detected movement as the fog shifted back and forth.

  The dying glow of daylight faded quickly, like a stage curtain being lowered on the scene, and the presence of his enemies was now confirmed by the eerie glow of flashlights swinging back and forth. The feeble yellow circles were quickly absorbed by the thickening blanket of fog and darkness. The underbrush began to thin and became easier to navigate. His pace quickened as he neared the edge of the forest. He ignored the limbs that tore at him and left angry red marks where they contacted unprotected flesh.

  Another gust of wind pushed the fog aside enough to reveal a parking area. A solitary vehicle off to one side beckoned to him with a welcoming pool of amber light that glistened on wet gravel. The outline of a figure behind the wheel stared straight ahead. The exhausted hippie came up on the vehicle from behind and saw the rear door behind the driver standing open.

  His pace slowed as he began to take in the scene. Why’s the door open? The question was answered a few seconds later when a blow to the back of his head caused an explosion of light and pain. It wasn’t strong enough to rob him of consciousness, but left him unable to resist having his arms pinned behind him.

  He glanced to his left as a gray-robed figure with a hood pulled down over its face approached him. The person behind him tied his hands together and held him tightly. He looked up at the figure through blurred vision. “What are you gonna do?”

  “What do you think, idiot? You snoop around here and ask too many questions. You stick your nose where it don’t belong…What do you think will happen?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, dude. I’m just a guy stuck here with a broken-down RV…Soon as I got the bread to fix it, I’m outta here.”

  “Do you think I will be stupid enough to believe that, Tovarich? We find hidden compartment behind refrigerator, so you can give up this heepie act. I know you work for government agency…You must tell me who it is, so I can make this nearly painless…Do you understand what I am sayink…Tovarich?”

  “Dude, like I said, you got the wrong guy…Just passin’ through…Wanna go party with my buds in Frisco.”

  “I am very much afraid they must ‘party’ without you, Meester Heepie. You will not be there, because you will have unfortunate accident first…Now, you must tell me who it is you work for.”

  “Listen, asshole…Not gonna say it again…Don’t work for nobody but the diner…Can’t tell you what I don’t know…Just a damned dishwasher.”

  The hippie was rudely pushed into the back seat of the car. His handler sat down in the seat next to him to hold him in place.

  The hooded figure leaned down into the car and the hippie could make out the features of a Slavic face. “Oh, Meester Heepie Man, I think you will be surprised at how much you will tell me…I have wery persuasive techniques”

  He slammed the door and moved to the driver’s window to issue a murmured command. The driver started the car, put it in gear and moved slowly out of the parking area through the near-zero visibility of the fog.

  SECURITY POLICE COMMANDER’S OFFICE MATHER AFB, CALIFORNIA “Good to see you again,” a hint of southern Mississippi gentleman in Bart’s soft baritone voice sounded a lot like Elvis Presley and added to the warmth of the greeting. “What brings you here?”

  “Afternoon, Colonel…Good to see you, too.” Her words were warm, but carried the same hard edge she displayed during last week’s mission. “Continuation of last week, I’m afraid. This office secure?”

  “’Bout as secure as any office with windows…Should we move?”

  “Might be a good idea.”

  A few minutes later they were behind electrically-locked doors in the basement-level secure conference room. He took a seat at the head of the oak conference table with her in the first seat on the right side facing him.

  “Probably aren’t here to check on my well-being, so what can I do for you?”

  She pursed her lips and sat up straighter. “Be glad to get to that…But first, everything we say is absolutely confidential, right?”

  “That’s what you want…it’s what you’ll get.”

  She offered a hint of a smile and continued, “First off, thanks for your work in Tahoe. I looked into your background and I must say, it seems like one more episode in a pretty remarkable career…Everything from the American Embassy hostage crisis in Tehran, to behind-the-Iron Curtain Cold War intelligence work…not to mention half a dozen other black op major world events. You sure have done your share to keep this country safe.”

  “And it’s all classified so high most people will never see it.”

  “Well, we are the NSA…nothing escapes our attention. You’ve actually been on our radar for quite some time…The Director is a secret fan, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “I didn’t know that…But the question’s still on the table…What can I do for you?”

  “Well, sir, it’s not what you can do for me personally…It’s about the NSA and wha
t you can do for it…Actually, not what you can do for it, more like what you can do for your country…I mean...Not doing a very good job, am I? All John F. Kennedy and everything.”

  He smiled. “Just come out and tell me what you need. You know I don’t bite, and you don’t need to beat around the bush…What’s going on?’

  She took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. “Thank you, sir. I’m supposed to set up a meeting between the Director and your team at our office in San Francisco…And it’s supposed to be super-secret.” Her relief at getting the words out was obvious.

  He set the coffee mug with the embossed Air Force logo down on the table. “Whoa, there, let’s take this one step at a time…Which Director are you talking about?”

  “That’s why I’m so nervous,” she replied. “The Director of the National Security Agency…My bosses’, bosses’ boss.”

  “See why you’re nervous…Still don’t understand… Why does someone who’s about ten levels above my pay grade want to talk to me…And what do you mean by ‘my team’? I have two hundred and ten people working for me.”

  “Sorry, sir…Guess I didn’t make it clear…Your Lake Tahoe team.”

  “You mean Jake and Joanna?”

  “They were hand-picked, weren’t they?”

  “Matter of fact, they were, based on their reaction to the attack on the Alert Pad. Each took out an attacker and went above and beyond in the search for Rick Eichner…Stood up under real-time pressure.”

  “Davies killed an Alert Pad perp with just a knife, didn’t she?”

  “Guess our files aren’t safe from the NSA, either…Yes, she made a split-second decision to kill an obvious threat.”

  “My kind of agent…Impressed the Director as well…We already knew about Jake Thomas’ capabilities.”

  “Again, why does your Director want to meet with us?…Wait just a dadgum minute…Why didn’t this come down through channels?”

  “It did, sir…just not very far. The Director talked with the SecDef…Who talked with the SecAF, and it all started during a meeting with the President.”

  “Hold on…You’re telling me the Director of the NSA chatted with the President of the United States about me and my so-called team?”

  She finally smiled and relaxed. “Exactly what I’m trying to say…And the Director usually gets his way, even with the President…Especially when it’s national security and classified Top Secret No-Forn.”

  The implications were becoming apparent to Bart. “Gotta let this sink in…Doesn’t happen every day.”

  “I understand, sir…Worked for the Agency for more than a decade and still get a shock every now and then.”

  “Okay, Agent Benson, what now?”

  “I’d feel better if you called me Benson…or Mary. The ‘Agent’ thing is for the public…Not people I work with.” “Fine…uh, Mary…Wasn’t aware we were coworkers.”

  “Slip of the tongue, sir. What I meant to say was, I appreciated working with you at Tahoe, and the Director wants to thank you in person…Plus, he has a few other surprises in store I can’t discuss. He wants you and your team to meet him at our San Francisco office tomorrow morning at 1000 hours…If it’s doable.”

  “Let me see…Rearrange schedules, cancel a meeting…Sure, it’s doable.”

  “Great…By the way, none of this can be discussed with anybody, including Thomas and Davies.”

  “Not a problem…They work for me. On the other hand, not quite sure how to tell my wife she can’t know where I’m going.”

  “Forgot to mention…the Director wants your wife to come, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Sorry…not authorized to say…But the Director was emphatic about her being there.”

  “And like you said, the Director gets his way.”

  “Well, she could say no, but I think she might find it interesting…And you seem to have a way with words.”

  “Flattery, huh? Well, I might could talk her into it.” Promise her a great lunch and a little sightseeing. “Guess I better get busy and make plans to drive over.”

  “No need…A helicopter will pick you up here.”

  “Okay, Bens…I mean, Mary…Like I said, looks like I got a little work to do…But first, I have a luncheon at the Club…Care to join me?”

  “Tempting as that sounds,” she said with a wry smile, “I really need to get back.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Thank you, sir…Need to call my office to confirm…The Director’s flying in this evening.”

  “C’mon, I’ll show you to a secure phone.”

  ***

  CHAPTER 3

  HAL’S HAV-A-CUP TRUCKSTOP HUMBOLDT COUNTY, NEVADA “Dang it, shore hate to be the bearer a bad tidin’s…But ‘fraid they just ain’t no gittin’ ‘round it…Yer alternator’s deader‘n a brick…An‘ the only way I know to git a new one here is on the mornin’ bus outta Elko…Shore am sorry, Mister…uh, Martin.”

  Rick Eichner liked his new identity. Bill Martin sounded more American and stronger, and he needed strength to get through the current ordeal. The pickup with the bed-mounted camper he was using to tow an enclosed cargo trailer refused to start again after he stopped for gas. The dusty Nevada truck stop was little more than a graveled spot in the desert sand on US Highway 93, which ran north and south through part of Nevada and Idaho.

  He was still on the run from federal authorities and traveled south out of Montana, until deciding the major highways might attract too much of the close scrutiny he needed to avoid. There were few roads he felt comfortable traveling, considering the contents of the trailer, so he came this way hoping to avoid detection. “Any way to patch it up enough to getme to Reno?”

  “Wish they was…but ‘fraid not. New one’s the only thin’ that’ll fix it…An’ that ain’t gonna happen ‘til mornin’. It’s the way it be after they quit runnin’ the evenin’ bus. Twern’t ‘nuff payin’ folks to keep ‘er goin’…So nowadays we gits us a mornin’ bus, an’ that be it.”

  “Well, guess I’m here ‘til then…How’s the food?” “Cain’t bellyache…Keeps me tickin’.”

  Rick smiled at the unintentional pun and sauntered over to

  the diner inside the truck stop. The smell of old fried food and stale cigarette smoke assaulted him as he stepped through the door.

  He choked down a grease-soaked dinner of colorless pork chops and watery mashed potatoes. Best I can hope for is it doesn’t make me sick. The one saving grace was the coffee. It was nowhere close to the strong smoky-flavored drink of his Russian homeland, but at least flavorful enough to help him forget the taste of the meal.

  There were many things he missed about his home on the Russian steppes, even as memories faded with the passing of time. His desire to see it was strong, but the mission here was far from complete. He needed to focus his energy toward the glorious ending his orders dictated. Loneliness and discomfort were small prices to pay for the glory that awaited him.

  He paid the bored woman at the register, picked up a few snacks while walking through the convenience store and joined a line at the counter behind a couple of wide-load truckers who were discussing the “Incident at the Lake”. His prediction about how the press would label the events for which he was responsible was correct.

  “Good thing that asshole died in a car accident,” one trucker confided in the other. “If I’d a got my hands on ‘im, I’d a wrung his neck like the chicken-shit he was.”

  “Don’t know if I’d a got all worked up over it myself,” the other wheel-jockey replied. “Lost my whole paycheck to those joints a couple a times…Tell ya here and now…I coulda blowed the whole damned place sky-high an’ never lost a minute’s sleep.”

  “I hear ya…but think a all the people that coulda died.” “Good point…But let’s face it, whatever made him tick, it took one big pair to do what he done.”

  “And look where it got him…dead.”

  Rick listened to their exchange with satisfaction t
hat brought a wry smile to his face. A shame most Americans don’t have a clue…Crap their pants if they knew my real goals.

  He considered sending a copy of his manifesto to the major media outlets, but that would have to wait until the time was right. In the meantime, he had a little unfinished business in California with that Air Force Colonel. The Consortium had a deep-cover plant who identified Winfield from surveillance tapes and Rick’s detailed description. Nice to have friends in high places. Apparently he was a secret top intelligence asset. His exploits were legendary in international espionage circles, although, this was the first time a face had been put on the shadowy figure who was feared from Bangkok to Belgrade. It would be satisfying to end the life of the figure known only as Tupelo—the man who thwarted his plan.

  The truckers in front of him finished paying, and as they moved away, Rick noticed a newspaper rack that was hidden by their bulk. DID HE WORK ALONE? screamed the bold headline on a tabloid newspaper above a picture from his California drivers’ license.

  He froze for a second and swept the store slowly with as casual a gaze as he could muster. The instant news environment that existed today made him think enough time had passed for public interest to die down. He was apparently still a hot news item. Need to stay low.

  He would have stayed at the ranch in Montana for another six months or so if a random accident hadn’t interfered. The old couple who ran the ranch was on the way back from town on a two-lane blacktop when the driver of a cattle-hauler fell asleep at the wheel, crossed the centerline, and hit them head on.

  They died instantly, which left the head wrangler in charge of the ranch. Rick was the likely operative to succeed them, but couldn’t simply step in and take over. His cover story indicated he was just an old friend visiting for a while to write a book.

  He had no desire to create some elaborate cover story for the head wrangler and didn’t know how much the man knew about the old couple’s espionage work. He quickly packed his belongings into the truck and cargo trailer and left the next day, since closer scrutiny by local authorities might disclose his true identity. Besides, the knowledge that Winfield would soon be near Seawind Bay made the decision easier. It was a good time to settle accounts with that meddling bastard and skip the country.