Little Kale jerked on his bound hand but couldn’t free himself. “You can’t do this!”
Chris became aware of the heat burning through the windshield. The fumes in the car might combust at any moment, taking both Chris and Little Kale up in smoke. He twirled the lighter in his hand.
“You’re insane!” Little Kale shouted. “Help me! Somebody help me!”
Chris flicked the lighter and the flame rose. “I want to make you suffer for what you did to Nikkia. I detest you. I want to do more than kill you; I want to murder you.” Chris was beside himself, as cruelty, hate and murder coursed through him—the three things Reverend Luther had prayed wouldn’t fill Chris’s heart, even in battle. Chris felt helpless, trapped by his own rage.
“I can’t tell you!” Little Kale shouted.
“Help me to help you! I’m on the edge here! Give me something to work with. Anything!” Chris wanted to step out of the vehicle, toss the lit lighter on the floor, and slam the door.
“I hope Professor Mordet eats you! Slowly!”
Chris looked at Little Kale then at his lighter.
God help me. Please.
He took a deep breath. In a moment of clarity, he took control of his body, closed the lighter lid, and put the lighter in his pocket. Chris was back inside his body, but his senses were overwhelmed, becoming too anesthetized to notice anything around him. He didn’t remember crawling out of the vehicle, but he was suddenly outside of it. He pushed hard on the crumpled door, and metal screeched against metal until it closed. Then he walked away.
“There’s someone inside that car!” a woman wrapped in makeup, jewels, and designer clothes yelled from a small group of onlookers.
“His leg is pinned under the car seat in front of him,” Chris said. “First responders are going to have to cut him out.”
Another lady gawked and pointed in the direction of Little Kale’s car.
Chris stopped and turned around.
The interior of the vehicle was on fire. Little Kale screamed, but his shouts were stifled inside the car. Soon, windows cracked under the intense heat. There was no saving Little Kale now, and Chris was too numb to feel anything except relief that Little Kale’s fate was no longer in his hands. And that Little Kale would never terrorize anyone ever again.
He took out Little Kale’s phone, switched it on, logged on to Young’s website, and the phone took on a life of its own. Young was on it now.
Chris headed back to the mall and sped up to a jog. Then a run. He searched for Hannah on the second floor, but all he found were bloodstains surrounded by police tape and law enforcement officers outside a Häagen-Dazs shop. He posed as Hannah’s brother and asked the police officers what had happened to her. They said one woman was killed and the other had a concussion. Their description of the woman with a concussion seemed to match Hannah. He used his own phone to call Young and asked if he had any information on her whereabouts.
“I don’t know where she is. But from what you’re saying, it sounds like Hannah is the woman with the concussion,” Young said.
Exhausted, Chris sat down on a bench. “If you find out more details, let me know.”
“Will do. You might be interested to know that there’s one anonymous phone number in Little Kale’s directory that he calls often. The number doesn’t appear in the other tangos’ directories.
Chris closed his eyes for a moment. “Mordet.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Do you have a location for him?” Chris asked.
“Too many. Could you use Little Kale’s phone to give him a call? That might help me pinpoint him.”
“Sure.”
Young gave it to him.
“Okay.” Chris ended the call, put his phone away, took out Little Kale’s cell, and called the anonymous number. It rang. And rang.
“What’s wrong?” Mordet answered.
“Little Kale won’t be joining you,” Chris said.
There was a pause. Mordet spoke in a relaxed voice. “Little Kale was an idiot. But I am intelligent enough to make up for his weakness.”
“You’re not going to blow up the Redskins-Cowboys game.”
Professor Mordet was quiet for a moment. “Oh, but I am, I surely am, and herein lies the paradox: I am the Teumessian fox that can never be caught. And you are Laelaps, the dog that catches everything.”
“We may both turn into stone, but you’re not killing those eighty-five thousand people,” Chris said.
“I will. And someone special to you will die, and you and I will shine in the sky for billions of years like Canis Minor and Canis Major.”
“What do you mean someone special?” Chris asked.
“Search your soul, and you will know who.”
“You’re bluffing. You’re just trying to distract me.”
“Now if you will be so kind as to excuse me, I have some work to do.”
The line went dead.
“Damn!” Chris shouted.
People nearby turned and looked at him.
His personal phone rang. The caller ID showed Young’s name.
“I still can’t pinpoint him,” Young said with disappointment when Chris picked up.
“How long will it take?”
“I don’t know how many hours.”
“We don’t have many hours,” Chris said.
“I know. I’ll do what I can,” Young said before hanging up.
Chris sat there on the bench, hollowness growing inside him. He looked at his watch. Kickoff was a little over four hours away. The most likely place for Mordet to be was in the vicinity of the Redskins’ stadium, but without any solid leads, he’d be chasing phantoms. And even if he knew where Mordet was, he still didn’t know if Hannah was all right. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing back the tears that threatened to spill out.
Where are you, God?
Reverend Luther’s voice echoed in his mind. God is always in the same place. We’re the ones who move closer or farther away. Chris wanted to be closer, but the dark cloud of discouragement hovered over him.
Thousands of innocent people will die.
As his sorrow swallowed him deeper and deeper, he felt more and more like the helpless boy at the bottom of the abandoned well. He’d used his belt buckle to scratch off a tally of each day. After three days, he’d still had no food or water, becoming so feeble that he’d known he was near death. He’d prayed to be rescued, but when he’d received no answer, he’d scratched a message on the wall telling his parents that he loved them.
Then he’d heard something that sounded like a voice coming from above. He had looked up. The night sky had seemed lighter, but no one had been there. But he’d heard the voice again. It had been a small, mild voice that shot to his heart like a diamond bullet, making his body tremble. In an instant, he’d known it must’ve been the voice of an angel. Or God. He’d feared that he might melt in the presence of such a holy being or be struck by lightning. And although he’d wanted to crawl under a rock and hide, there had been nowhere to go. The voice had spoken again, and that time Chris had understood: Fear not. On the morrow, when the night cometh, you will be saved. The sky had become darker after that, and the voice hadn’t returned.
During the next day of captivity, Chris had barely had enough energy to think about the voice. Although he’d thought he might’ve been hallucinating, he’d believed his experience had been real. Weakening further, he’d drifted in and out of consciousness. In the evening, he’d tried to stay awake, but he’d realized that his salvation might be death. He’d fallen asleep waiting to be saved, only to be awakened by the sound of the air being beaten. For a moment, he’d thought it was angels, but when he’d heard gunshots and machine gun fire, he’d realized it was helicopters. Minutes later, a light had flashed down on him, and a voice had called to him, “Chris Paladin, are you down there?”
He’d tried to cry out and wave, but his voice had come out faint, and he’d barely been able to lift his arms.
“Chris, I’m a Navy SEAL. I’m here to rescue you.” A shadow had descended the well, and when it had touched bottom, the man had strapped Chris into a harness, hooked them together, and then they’d ascended.
Chris sat in the mall trying to make sense of it all. He remembered his sermon before leaving Dallas, how the man who’d wavered between belief and unbelief had finally sided on belief, which resulted in the healing of his son. On the mission to stop Mordet, Chris had wavered, too—struggling to be both a minister and a SEAL. His sermon had been more for himself than it had been for his congregation, he realized now. Since childhood, his personal relationship with God was always his key to overcoming doubt. Once again, it was time for Chris to believe. It was time to save those thousands of people.
His phone rang then, and he glanced at the screen. Young. Chris answered.
“Just did another cross-data check, and one word was significant,” Young said.
“One word?” Chris asked.
“Aegis. In the IT world, the Aegis handles a computer network’s authentication, but I can’t figure out how they’ll use that to blow up the game.”
Chris was quiet for a moment as he thought. In Greek mythology, Zeus and Athena carried a shield called Aegis. But what does that have to do with the stadium?
He thought some more. Then the realization hit him. He swallowed. “Jim Bob said that he believed the Department of Defense weapons systems were vulnerable and that if Mordet obtained the black box on the Switchblade Whisper, he could use the crypto, security, and authentication to hack into the Department of Defense. The Navy developed a missile guidance combat system called Aegis. It’s all computerized.”
“So Mordet needed the Switchblade Whisper in order to hack into Aegis,” Young said. “Wouldn’t he have to pilot the ship within missile range of the Redskins’ stadium?”
Chris stood and hurried to the nearest exit. “Naval Station Norfolk has plenty of ships capable of carrying missiles that can strike the Redskins’ stadium or beyond. I’m on my way there right now. We’ve only got a few hours. Let me know if you get anything new.”
“Will do.”
Chris arrived at the rental car, only to remember that Hannah had the keys.
Damn.
At least he knew how to pick a lock and hotwire a car.
40
_______
Chris sped south on I-95, anxiously checking his side and rearview mirrors, looking for police who might try to pull him over or slow him down. If only they could slow down his thoughts, instead.
Is Hannah okay? Am I going in the right direction? Will I make it in time to stop Mordet? I can’t let those eighty-five thousand people die. I’m losing my mind.
“Shit. Shit-shit. Shit, shit-shit…” He repeated the same words aloud over and over. The repetition gave him a sense of stability and took his mind off losing his sanity.
Chris’s phone rang again, and he answered it.
“Norfolk just experienced a cell phone outage in areas that include the Naval Station,” Young said.
“Shit,” he said again. “If Mordet hits a ship’s quarterdeck, communications and armory all at the same time, no one can call for help, and the security team will have no access to their weapons.”
He slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
Three hours and two hundred miles south later, Chris arrived in Norfolk.
Most of the naval station’s security faced inland, and their training centered on planned exercises at scheduled dates and times that seemed more of a dog and pony show than a true test of security. It often left the water unwatched, or at least not watched by careful eyes. Once when he was in the Teams, he’d forgotten his military ID card, and he’d actually swum onto base. He hoped to do the same today at Naval Station Norfolk.
Chris parked his car on the north shore of Willoughby Bay and studied the base across the water. Although it would be a shorter swim to the heliport, that was a restricted area and probably more difficult to infiltrate, so he chose to swim to the Navy’s recreational marina, nearly a kilometer away.
He left his rifle and Little Kale’s things in the vehicle, but he kept his pistol in its concealed holster. Both the pistol and holster could take the water, but his cell phone couldn’t. He pulled out a waterproof bag, and before he sealed his cell phone in it, he checked to see if he had a phone signal. He did. Good. The utilities must’ve already fixed the cell phone outage. He placed the phone in his bag, sealed it, and returned it to the thigh pocket of his cargo pants.
Chris slipped into the water and swam a combat sidestroke, which gave him a low profile without splashes. Nobody on the base seemed to notice him yet, and as he expected, there was no visible security facing the bay. He swam until he reached a mound of rocks that formed a seawall protecting the marina from being eroded by small waves in the harbor. His pace had been fast; it had only taken him eighteen minutes. He wasn’t the same kid who had walked off the street into the Navy, that was for sure. And now the stakes were infinitely higher.
Chris stepped out of the water scanning the area for onlookers. He didn’t see any, so he walked inland across the wall of rocks and stepped onto the base.
Here I am. Now what?
He set the timer on his watch: T-minus sixty minutes until missile launch. He took off his shirt, wrung the water out of it before donning it again, and walked past a family in civilian clothes. They gave him an odd look as if wondering why his clothes were wet. Then a pair of sailors passed, paying him little attention, if any. They either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared. He continued south along the wharf. After passing nearly three kilometers of piers with ships tied to them, he still had three more kilometers of piers to go. Not knowing exactly what he was looking for, he felt lost.
As he proceeded to Pier Nine, a sunless mood came over him. The USS Normandy, a guided missile cruiser, was moored by itself to the north. He passed the pier, and the shadowy feeling brightened. It was as if a giant dark cloud hovered over the Normandy itself.
Mordet. I can feel you.
He returned to Pier Nine. The pier security guard’s gaze narrowed on him as he approached. Chris examined the sailor quickly. The guard’s hair came slightly over his ears. Either he was a sailor pushing regulations or an imposter. Chris suspected the latter. He’s too alert—unlike a sailor who has stood too many watches in home port, and nothing happens. But something is about to happen, and this guy knows it.
“Sir, this pier is temporarily on lockdown for a security drill,” the guard said.
“I’m investigating a terrorist threat in the area,” Chris countered, “and I’d like to know where you went to boot camp?” Every sailor remembers where he went to boot camp, and whoever says it’s classified information is lying.
“Huh?” the guard asked.
“Did you go to boot camp in South Carolina or Texas?”
“Texas.”
Chris took a step toward him. “Wrong answer.”
The guard’s hand inched slowly in the direction of the pistol on his hip. “I’m sorry, I meant South Carolina.”
“Wrong again,” Chris said.
The guard reached for his pistol, which Chris realized had an extended holster, probably for a sound suppressor. There was nothing Navy about the man other than his uniform. Chris stepped forward and struck him with an open-handed chop to the throat, stunning him. Chris grabbed his head and wrenched it around until the guard’s spine snapped, and his body dropped to the ground like a sack of elephant shit.
He proceeded to the 173-foot cruiser. It’s the weekend. Most of the crew will be off the ship. He walked up to the brow, a portable metal plank that connected the ship to shore. Partway across the brow, he stopped and stood at attention facing the US flag aft, then he continued to the end of the brow and stopped at attention facing the older of two sailors on the quarterdeck. “Request permission to come aboard,” Chris said.
Instead of asking for Chris’s ID and granting permi
ssion, the older sailor said, “We’re under lockdown right now, and you can’t board the ship.”
Similar to the imposter on the pier, his holster wasn’t regulation.
“Are you the OOD?” Chris asked.
The sailor hesitated. “Yes.”
Chris pointed to the other guy. “Is that your Petty Officer of the Watch?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your Messenger?” Chris asked.
“I told you, we’re under lockdown.”
“Why are both of you armed instead of just one?” Chris asked. “Why sound-suppressed pistols? And what are these stains all over the quarterdeck?”
The fake OOD reached for his gun, but Chris got to his own first and let the air out of the imposter. Meanwhile, the other “sailor” was drawing his sound-suppressed weapon. Chris’s bullets swept him aside.
His pocket vibrated. Damn. If he’d been sneaking up on someone and his cell had gone off, he’d be a dead man. After taking his phone out of his pocket, he noticed the caller ID: Young.
“What?” Chris whispered.
“You were right! Mordet hacked into the USS Normandy’s Aegis combat system, and he’s uploading GPS coordinates and TERCOM leading to two targets.” TERCOM was the Terrain Contour Matching navigation system used for cruise missiles. Each missile would follow the pre-recorded contour maps, use its internal radar to record its current locations, digitally match the uploaded map with its current location, correlate for accurate flight, and adjust for any deviance until it reached its target.
“We know that he’s targeting the Redskins’ stadium. But you just said two targets.”
“Just a sec. He’s going to fire a Block II TLAM A.”
Chris’s heart sank. Each Tomahawk Land Attack Missile could travel distances up to 2500 kilometers at a speed of 890 kilometers per hour. They delivered an air-burst of four hundred fifty kilograms of high explosives, enough to kill all eighty-five thousand people at the Redskins-Cowboys game.
“Where’s the second target?” Chris asked.
“Oh, no.”
“Where?”
Trident's First Gleaming Page 24
