Black Star Bay

by T C Miller

  Two of the most powerful devices in the world were safely ensconced in the cargo trailer, along with a small cache of weapons and explosives he borrowed from the deceased couple. They kept them in a hidden safe room in the house and told him he was the only other person to know of its existence.

  At least I don’t have to worry about money. He had almost half a million dollars safely stashed in hidden compartments in the truck, and numerous overseas accounts under false identities that contained the seven hundred million dollar ransom he collected during the episode at Mather Air Force Base. The funds had been thoroughly laundered through dozens of contacts and were waiting for him.

  Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to him, so he quickly laid the snacks on the counter and produced a twenty dollar bill. The overweight gum-smacking teen-aged clerk with bottle-blonde hair tied up in a bouncy ponytail and a plastic name tag that said MINDY scanned the items without looking up. She gave him the change without meeting his gaze and stuffed the purchases into a flimsy plastic bag imprinted with the logo of the truck stop.

  “Have a nice day,” she intoned in a flat voice as she shoved the bag across the counter and waited for the next customer in line to shuffle forward.

  Two men talking near the truckers lounge caught his attention when he noticed them watching him. It was the two truckers who were in line in front of him a few minutes earlier. He nearly panicked and reached for the Glock 17 in a holster on the back of his belt. Instead, he turned toward a sunglasses display and used the mirror mounted on it to observe the drivers while pretending to try on glasses.

  Their conversation became more animated and Rick appeared to be the topic of discussion. One of the truckers pointed at him and even began to step toward him, until his partner put a hand on his shoulder. He said something in his ear and they turned and walked into the trucker’s lounge.

  Time to disappear . He strolled through the store as nonchalantly as possible and out the door to the parking lot. The walk to the repair shop seemed to take forever, even though it was only a few hundred feet. The grizzled old mechanic popped his head out from under the hood of a dusty van as he wiped his hands on a greasy rag.

  “Hey there, mister…Heer’d from them parts folks…Says your alternator’ll be here some time in the mornin’…An’ like I says afore…Yer more‘n welcome to stay in the shop tonight.” “Thanks, sir, sure do appreciate it.”

  Rick sought the refuge of the RV and hoped the truck

  drivers would forget him in their hurry to meet a delivery deadline. So far, nobody recognized him as the very much alive victim of mistaken identity in the fiery crash in California and he hoped to keep it that way.

  A little hair dye and a simple dental prosthesis significantly altered his appearance. The addition of clear-lens eye glasses gave him the look of an accountant, or the retired engineer that his cover story indicated. He would stay out of sight and officially dead as long as possible.

  He methodically ate the snacks from the truck stop store and laid down with a nine-millimeter Israeli machine-pistol next to him in the cramped built-in bunk. The clock was ticking and he needed to be in the tiny coastal village of Seawind Bay, California by the end of the week. The meeting with his contact was set for the following week and he certainly did not want to miss it.

  The small group of former soldiers of the Soviet Union who found their way to the remote fishing village could provide the solution for the successful completion of his mission. He would count on their allegiance to their former masters—in what was once again called Russia—to provide transport for him and the priceless cargo out of the country. Of course, the knowledge that tens of millions of dollars would be funneled their way would certainly help to gain a modicum of loyalty.

  He intertwined his fingers behind his head and stared at the cheap paneling on the ceiling. He could not believe the good fortune that allowed Tupelo to be such a short distance away attending an RV rally. He did not believe in God, but still, somebody or something was watching over him.

  Sleep did not come as easily as it had before his entanglement with the Thursday Night Mafia. The four middle-aged men he recruited all worked at Mather Air Force base in various capacities. He used their knowledge of base systems and protocols to acquire the precious items he now possessed.

  The soft haze of sleep was just beginning to overtake his tired mind when an image of the four ill-fated accomplices seated around a game table thrust itself into his thoughts. They said nothing, but stared at him with accusations from the grave.

  He bolted upright and hit his head on the ceiling of the bunk. It took a moment to shake off the hazy half-sleep and settle back down with his heart racing and sweat forming on his forehead. Befriending them and starting the Thursday night blackjack game allowed him to gain their trust over time. He added increasingly powerful doses of hypnotic drugs to their drinks each week and soon had them under his control.

  They were caught by mob enforcers after a failed attempt to scam Lake Tahoe casinos at the blackjack tables—just as he hoped they would be. The mob ordered them to come up with three-hundred thousand dollars within a month or suffer terrible consequences. There was no way to get their hands on more than a few thousand dollars between them, which advanced his master plan and made manipulation of the hapless four even easier.

  Dejected and desperate, they agreed to invade the alert pad at Mather Air Force Base and take a B-52G bomber hostage. He told them nobody would get hurt and they would never leave the compound with nuclear weapons. They turned out to be both gullible and naive—like most Americans.

  It was a shame he had to eliminate them, but they would have unnecessarily complicated his escape. Setting off the explosions that collapsed the getaway tunnel was easy at the time because he knew they must die. Knowing the men would be trapped and killed hadn’t bothered him then, but he found himself waking up in a cold sweat, sometimes two or three times in the same night. They invaded his dreams individually and as a group.

  Perhaps the deep cover assignment living with these Americans had weakened his steely resolve. He needed to concentrate on the mission at hand.

  Sleep had almost found him when an image of Winfield in the high-stakes card room in the casino at Lake Tahoe startled him awake. At the time, he had assumed that Winfield was just a senior security official in the casino, or maybe a hostage negotiator for the local police. If he had known he was facing the larger-than-life Tupelo, he would have shot him immediately. Now, there was a chance that Winfield was actually pursuing him. He did not feel like matching wits with him, but might not have a choice in the matter. More ghosts to add to his sleepless nights.

  The ghosts would someday give up haunting him and the dreams would eventually fade. He repeated that mantra over and over until he forced himself into a fitful sleep.

  ***

  CHAPTER 4

  NSA WEST COAST OFFICE SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA “I’m supposed to walk you through our building entry security protocol,” said Jack Barker, the young NSA agent who was on the helicopter when it picked them up the next morning. Tall and lanky, with a shock of straight blonde hair that hung slightly over his ears and was combed to the side, he wore a tan suit jacket with jeans and loafers and the knot of a plain sky-blue necktie was pulled down loosely over a white shirt. He could easily be a new tech-hire at one of the numerous internet startups just beginning to settle into the area. Instead, he worked for the most powerful user of communications in the country— the federal government.

  They had just landed in the parking lot of the San Francisco office south of the city in an industrial area. It had all of the outward trappings of an engineering firm or an international trade brokerage without the usual ego-driven signs. In fact, the building lacked any identification at all including address.

  “Would have landed on the roof helipad but it’s undergoing routine maintenance. That’s good though…gives me a chance to show you around a little…The Director wants you to see
how we operate.”

  “I don’t suppose we could just get to the meeting, could we, Mr. Barker?” Bart asked.

  “Please call me Jack, and the Director said to show you

  around…”

  “And the Director gets what he wants.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, there are four zones of security required

  to gain access to the working parts of the building…a healthy

  mix of cutting-edge technology and good old fashion human

  interaction. If you work here, you enter a six-digit security code

  into the keypad and the gate opens to let you into the parking

  lot. If you don’t have a code or, heaven forbid you forget yours,

  there’s a two-way intercom with a camera to verify your

  identity. A guard in the building either gives you the code, or

  the person you’re visiting vouches for you.”

  “Sounds pretty easy,” Jake interjected.

  Jack smiled. “Ah, but that only gets you into the parking lot.

  Hidden sensors scan your vehicle for explosives and x-ray it to make sure nobody’s hidden inside. Visitors park in one of six reserved spots that are actually disguised bomb pits. In an emergency, the blacktop collapses and drops the vehicle into a twelve-foot deep concrete-lined hole that directs the force of a

  blast skyward.”

  “And the driver?”

  “Oops.” Jack’s tone was almost cheerful. “Anyway,” he

  continued as they were buzzed into the garage by an unseen

  security guard. “…as you can see, there’s a single-person entry

  door as well as an overhead steel door that leads into the

  underground parking garage. Each requires a magnetic strip

  entry card and verification by a security guard. Both can resist

  the blast from over forty thousand pounds of binary explosives.

  The entry area is also strategically shaped so the blast would be

  directed outward and away from the building.”

  “Wow, that’s taking security seriously.” Joanna blushed.

  “Sorry…didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s okay…I was thoroughly impressed during my

  employee orientation…Now let’s go inside, shall we?” Bart raised an eyebrow. There it is again…Feel like I’ve

  been hired.

  Jack continued the briefing, “Down to the left is a control

  room with bulletproof windows that I’m told will take the blast

  from a rocket propelled grenade…Let’s show our ID to the

  guards and do a retina-scan.”

  He moved closer to the wall-mounted device and the others

  followed his example. “Security cameras also do facial

  recognition. Once you’re cleared, you’re buzzed into the elevator lobby…Small because it’s also a scanner that checks

  for hidden weapons and explosives.”

  They filed into the elevator and Jack pushed the button for

  the garage as the door closed.

  “Wait a minute,” Jake said. “You pressed the button for the

  floor we’re on, so why’s the elevator going up?”

  “Weird, isn’t it?” Jack answered in the same gleeful tone he

  used earlier. “The button sequence is the opposite of what you’d

  expect to confuse intruders. You’d be surprised how many new

  people stand here and press the top button three or four times

  until they remember that.”

  He leaned forward and spoke in a fake conspiratorial voice,

  “Did it more than once myself the first week on the job…Think

  it’s some sort of IQ test…Just kidding. And the elevator car can

  be locked up tight like a holding cell.”

  The elevator deposited them into another lobby that

  contained three keypad-controlled doors, one on each wall. Jack

  saw their confusion and answered before they could ask, “Two

  of the doors are fake and lead into holding cells…The pattern is

  different on each floor. You’d better know which way you’re

  going, otherwise somebody has to come and let you out.…That

  only happens once.”

  He entered a code into the keypad next to the door to the

  right but turned and led them through the door on the left. Bart followed behind the others. Feel like I’m going down

  the rabbit hole with Alice.

  NSA SECURE FACILITY PETALUMA, CALIFORNIA “All right, Bill, let’s take an assessment of the events since you arrived here a week ago.” Ray—no last name—was his Patient Liaison and that’s all the information he offered. “Tell me in your own words what has happened since the incident at Mather.”

  “Sure, Doc, uh, Ray. Let’s see, in my own words…I was part of the Thursday Night Mafia…what we call our little bunch of guys that plays blackjack. Not some big time Mob gambling game…Just five guys who get together in one of our garages, usually Jason’s, to play cards and shoot the breeze. Blackjack, ‘cause there’s five of us…Kinda hard to play a lot of games with more than four guys and most of us don’t like poker.

  “Anyway, we come up with this plan to scam casinos at Lake Tahoe which, now that I think about it, was pretty damned stupid…pardon my French…Couldn’t tell us at the time though ‘cause it all seemed to make sense when that assho…I mean, when Rick explained it.

  “He’s the only one of us who don’t work out at the base…Just a local contractor who does some work there… That’s how we come to know him. Rest of us are Civil Service like me…I retire from the Air Force as a cop…then go to work a few weeks later as a DOD cop…You know, same work, different uniform.”

  “Not to interrupt, but I’m more interested in the time period since you got here.” “Oh, sure, was just thinking you might wanna get some background about how this all come about.” He pointed to the desktop recorder Ray had started.

  “Go ahead then, if you think it’s important.” The office intercom buzzed before Bill could continue. “Excuse me…That’s the hot line…I need to take it.” Ray walked over to the desk.

  SECURE CONFERENCE ROOM NSA WEST COAST OFFICE The walnut-topped table with twelve comfortable chairs around it dominated the conference room. A mini-lectern was centered on one side of the table with a ceiling-mounted projector over it. Although they were not visible, Bart was certain the room contained hidden security features that were light-years ahead of the conference rooms at Mather. He felt more secure here than he would have in the gold vaults at Fort Knox. The only thing he wasn’t sure of was why they were here. Thought I was out of this business.

  The door opened and it was not hard to recognize which of the five people who entered was the Director. Although well past the usual retirement age, he walked with a spring in his step and a quiet air of authority that was reassuring and unmistakable. Dark brown hair with streaks of gray was parted on the side and combed back. He was clean-shaven, with military-style sideburns that were short enough to hide most gray hair. His navy-blue wool-blend suit was impeccably tailored by the same shop in DC that was the source of his clothing for four decades. A blue necktie of the same color was imprinted with tiny replicas of the NSA logo and held down to a crisp white button-down collar shirt with a solid silver tie-bar that had an NSA medallion on it.

  Mary Benson nodded toward Bart and the youngest of the other four stepped forward to introduce himself as Justin Todd, Assistant to the Director. Average in height and weight, he kept his sandy hair trimmed short on the sides, with just a hint of a wave on top. He had the air of the Ivy League law school graduate he was. His dark brown suit was custom-tailored and he wore handmade Italian loafers. He turned to the tall black man.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce Robert Harmon, Director of Personnel Security for the Agency.” “Please, call me Bob,” said t
he tallest of the three men. He

  was a muscular black man in his forties with a shaved head,

  who almost matched Bart’s six foot six inch frame. Although he

  nearly filled a doorway, he moved with the grace and power of a

  long distance runner or dancer.

  Bob was wearing what appeared to be a machine pistol in a

  shoulder holster under a plain black suit. The outline of personal

  body armor was barely visible under a black turtleneck sweater,

  and its presence was understandable. The Director had

  accumulated numerous enemies during his decades of service,

  especially during the Cold War. The coiled wire of an

  inconspicuous earpiece ran down Bob’s back to a transceiver. He made a point of shaking hands with Bart, waited for the

  Director to sit at the head of the table and assumed a position a

  few feet behind him with his hands crossed in front. The rest of

  the people in the room took seats around the conference table,

  including the fifth member of the entourage, who was not

  introduced.

  Justin keyed an entry into a computer and said in a quiet

  voice, “Someone has a recording device in their possession.” They took turns exchanging glances until Jake spoke up,

  “Sorry, forgot…always carry it with me to take notes.” Todd gave him a sour smile that conveyed his displeasure

  and Jake surrendered the offending device. “It will be returned

  to you at the end of this meeting.”

  “Sure, again…Sorry.”

  Todd offered no reply. “I think we are ready to begin.” The

  hum of conversation quickly died and they all swiveled in their

  seats to face the Director.

  The Director smiled, clasped his hands on the polished

  finish of the conference table and began, “I want to thank the

  four of you for coming over from Mather. I know it’s an