Arctic Fire

by Stephen W. Frey

  “So?”

  “Count the number of fingers he has pointing at the ground.” He could hear her whispering to herself as she counted. “Seven, right?”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, nodding at him excitedly as she turned to face him. “Seven. My God.”

  He could see the recognition in her eyes. She understood exactly what he was saying, what seven fingers pointing at the ground meant. “I’ve seen pictures of Troy standing exactly the same way,” Jack explained. “Like the one my mother used for his memorial service.” He hesitated for a moment as he replayed the sound of himself saying “my mother.” He’d said it so many times over the years, but it meant so much more now. “He was standing in front of the Arctic Fire right before she sailed a few weeks ago, and in it he was standing just like Charlie’s standing in this one.”

  “So you think that’s how you can tell someone’s a Falcon.” She glanced back down at Charlie’s image. “But why would they risk people finding out?”

  “Secret groups always do things like that. I could show you plenty of examples in history of hush-hush groups giving clues to what’s really going on. The cold, hard truth is that almost no one in the world can really keep a secret.”

  Karen nodded. “Isn’t that the damn truth?”

  “Here’s the really interesting thing,” Jack continued. “While I was in my father’s office the other day down on Wall Street waiting for him, I was looking at a couple of pictures on his credenza. In one of them he was standing next to a guy and he had his thumbs hooked into his belt the same way with seven fingers pointing down.” He didn’t tell her that the guy beside Bill in the photo was the governor of New York because he didn’t want her jumping to any conclusions about the governor.

  Karen’s eyes opened wide. “You think Bill Jensen is a Falcon?” A puzzled expression clouded her face. “But Falcons are all young and athletic because they go crazy places and do crazy things. At least, that’s what Charlie told me. And they try to be as anonymous as they can be.” She shook her head. “Your dad’s the chief executive of one of the biggest banks in this country. He’s not a rock star or a star athlete, but he’s still pretty well known. It would be hard for him to move around without being identified. Not to mention the fact that he’s got to be in his sixties, right?”

  “When I told him I was going to Alaska, he freaked out, and he never freaks out. He told me to stay away from there in no uncertain terms. He basically told me he’d do anything to keep me away from there. I’ve never seen him react like that before in my life. It was weird.”

  Karen’s eyes opened even wider. “You think your father sent those men to kill us last night?” she asked incredulously. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  Karen didn’t understand the dynamic. She couldn’t; she’d never even met him. Bill was a fanatic when it came to the United States. He would literally do anything to protect it. Maybe even not pursue what had really happened to Troy because pursuing the truth about Troy might compromise some bigger picture he was unfailingly loyal to—as incredibly coldhearted as that sounded for a father.

  And maybe Bill had always hated having someone living in his house who was someone else’s son. Maybe Cheryl’s out-of-wedlock kid had always been a terrible right-in-the-face reminder to Bill all these years that Cheryl had been intimate with another man. And having those guys shoot him last night would have been an excellent way to erase that awful reminder without Cheryl knowing who was behind the killing. It sounded so cold, but Bill could be a cold man.

  “A week after he’d lost his younger son?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I know how it sounds,” Jack said dismissively, trying to act like what he’d implied was probably stupid, even though he didn’t really think it was. He just didn’t want to dwell on it right now. “I’m just trying to come up with some kind of explanation for what happened. Hey, you asked.” He watched her slide the picture of Charlie back in her wallet. “So, why do you still carry a gun, Karen?”

  “It’s my old revolver from the force. I never handed it in, and they never asked for it back.”

  “But why do you still carry it on you? I mean, you’re a waitress.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Hey, that little bite of crab cake I got was awesome, and the place has a great reputation. But I’m sure you still get some complaints.” He chuckled. “Do you really need to pull a gun when customers bitch?”

  “Very funny.”

  “It certainly brings new meaning to the term ‘dealing with customer complaints.’”

  “Whatever. Look, like I told you, awhile ago I got a visit from a couple of guys who wouldn’t tell me who they were or what they did. They asked me some really weird questions about Charlie.”

  “Like what?”

  She hesitated. “Like if he’d tried to contact me recently.”

  “But he was…” Jack’s voice trailed off. There it was again—Charlie’s death.

  “I told them he was dead, but they kept asking me. Finally, they left. A week later they showed up again at my door asking the same questions. But they were a lot more aggressive about it that time. After that, I started carrying my gun wherever I went.”

  “So then maybe that’s why those guys showed up last—”

  Karen sobbed out of nowhere, and it caught Jack by surprise. Tears were suddenly streaming down her cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She tried to wipe the tears away, but they kept coming. “I was just thinking about Mick getting killed. He was just trying to help me.”

  The bullet had smashed into the back of Mick’s head and out his eye. She’d been lucky not to have been hit by it herself, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about him last night at the hotel or so far this morning.

  “It’s my fault he’s dead,” she whispered.

  “It is not your fault,” Jack said quickly and firmly. “Not at all.”

  “I feel so bad for him.”

  She was sobbing hard, and he reached over and took her hand. It was still early in their relationship, but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stand seeing a woman cry like that. Especially one he was starting to care about so much. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “Thanks.”

  He started to pull his hand away, but she squeezed his fingers tightly and wouldn’t let go.

  CHAPTER 28

  CARLSON HAD answered Stein’s anxious telephone call at exactly seven o’clock this morning, as he was making sure to savor every delicious bite of the breakfast Nancy had made for him.

  To reach him so directly, Carlson knew, Stein had used a cell number that had been subtly slipped to him at his first national security briefing—the one that had occurred in Langley, Virginia, a few weeks after Dorn’s landslide victory.

  On the call this morning, Stein had mentioned only that he wanted to place a bet on a horse named Big Blue. In response to the strange request, Carlson had given Stein odds of Big Blue winning, placing, and showing in the seventh race at Belmont Park that afternoon. Except they were the wrong odds, they weren’t even close. A horse named Big Blue was actually running in that race, but the numbers Carlson had reeled off had a vastly different purpose than handicapping a horse race.

  Immediately after giving Stein the numbers, Carlson had hung up. There was no need to say anything more, and Carlson wanted to finish his breakfast while it was warm. He hated cold food because he’d been forced to eat it that way so many times during his career thanks to inopportune phone calls like Stein’s and being stuck in remote places where hot food wasn’t even available.

  While finishing the last few bites of the three-egg bacon and cheddar omelet, Carlson thought about how Stein was probably already staring intently at a laminated sheet of paper he’d also received at that same security briefing in Langley. By matching the numbers Carlson had given him on the call to specific columns and rows on the sheet of paper, Stein would be able to determine the location and time of the meeting.
Carlson just prayed that Stein took his time with the calculations. He put his dishes in the sink for Nancy to wash. He didn’t want to wait around. His time was too valuable—especially now that he’d seen the doctor again.

  Fortunately, Stein had calculated everything correctly and arrived in Reston seven minutes ago, which was seven minutes early. Carlson was favorably impressed—so far. The only thing marring their first-ever face-to-face meeting was that Stein worked for David Dorn. Unfortunately, nothing could make up for that.

  “Thanks for seeing me so quickly, Roger,” Stein began politely after they’d shaken hands and were sitting down facing each other.

  To Carlson’s almost immeasurable satisfaction, Stein was acting low-key and deferential this afternoon, almost apologetic in his tone and manner.

  “No problem, Rex,” Carlson answered. They were meeting in the same room in which he’d given Maddux permission to kill that child molester. Stein had entered a house down the street and then followed one of Carlson’s associates through a maze of underground passages to this house. “What’s on your mind?” Carlson was confident he knew what was on Stein’s mind. It was how the chief of staff presented his agenda that would be the interesting part of this meeting. “How can I help you?”

  Stein adjusted his bow tie before answering. “First of all, Roger, let me tell you how impressed I am and, as a citizen of this country, how much I appreciate all you’ve done during your career to protect the United States. I’d heard rumors about it for a long time, of course. But I really had no idea what the amazing scope of your contribution to national security was until that first CIA meeting at Langley after the election.”

  It sounded so scripted, but that was all right with Carlson. Stein was starting off by kissing the ring—slurping on it, really—which meant that his assumption about Stein’s agenda was exactly right. “So how can I help you?” Carlson asked a second time after nodding politely.

  Stein grinned painfully, as if he wished he didn’t have to answer the question. “My boss, the president of the United States, was,” he hesitated for a moment as he searched for the most appropriate word, “shall we say, well, emboldened by his margin of victory in the national election a year ago.”

  The formality of Stein’s delivery told Carlson that even though Stein was a consummate Washington insider, he’d never dealt with the guys in the longest, darkest shadows of the intelligence world. That gave Carlson a huge advantage in this meeting.

  “Unfortunately,” Stein continued, “and I say this delicately and with all due respect, President Dorn still feels the same way. Emboldened, I mean. He basically believed that his landslide victory gave him a mandate to do pretty much whatever he wanted. And he still does, Roger,” Stein added after a short pause. “I’ve tried to steer him away from situations where he might have gotten ahead of himself and acted more like a bull in a china shop than a polished politician. I think I’ve been successful for the most part in doing that, and I think the Democratic Party appreciates that I have.” Stein took a deep, obviously frustrated breath. “The problem comes when—” Stein interrupted himself. “Problem isn’t a good word in this instance. What I really should have said was that—”

  “For Christ’s sake, Rex, leave the fucking bullshit back at the barn.” Carlson could tell he’d shocked Stein with his outburst and instantly put him off his game. The guy looked like he’d just seen a ghost. Maybe he was supposed to be a ballbuster in the West Wing, but he was out of his element here. He wasn’t just groping for words. He was groping for his way. “Say what you have to say. I don’t have the time or the inclination to listen to all this crap. Be blunt, man.”

  Stein’s expression turned into one of steely resolve. “Daniel Beckham met with you without my approval. I didn’t see the asset list he presented you with before he presented it to you. A man in your position might get the wrong impression after seeing that list. The second I saw it, well, that was my reaction.” Stein rolled his eyes. “I should say, when I finally saw it.”

  Carlson masked his grave disappointment. Without realizing it, Stein had just confirmed everything. President Dorn definitely intended to destroy Red Cell Seven. The simple fact that Beckham had been allowed to leave the White House without first showing that list to the president’s chief of staff confirmed everything Shane Maddux and his Falcons had heard.

  The president had no chance now. Carlson might have been able to stop the attack before…but not now. The assassination was a full-ahead go, and the president was a dead man. Now it was just a question of when and where the shooting would occur.

  “Spin that all the way out for me, Rex,” Carlson said calmly. “What are you saying?”

  “You know exactly what I’m saying, Roger. I’m saying that President Dorn shouldn’t have let Beckham show you that list. It was a goddamned huge mistake.” Stein put his hands up and out as a clear indication of diplomacy and contrition. “And the president understands that. I promise you he does.”

  Bullshit, Carlson thought to himself. Bull fucking shit. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Rex, because, to be honest, I was concerned when I saw that list. Very concerned.”

  “You don’t need to be anymore, Roger,” Stein said quickly. He shook his head hard. “Sometimes the president acts too quickly. As I said before, for the most part I’ve been able to corral that impulse before it was too late.” He exhaled heavily. “But not in this case.” Stein glanced over at Carlson. “I’m sorry about all of that. But I’m glad we’ve been able to clear it all up before things got out of hand. Maybe the good in the bad is that you and I finally met face-to-face after hearing about each other for so many years.”

  Carlson didn’t like Stein alluding to clearing things up before things got out of hand. It could mean that Stein understood exactly how dire the situation was for his boss. And if he could convince the president how dire the situation was, he might even be able to convince Dorn and the Secret Service to be more careful than usual for a while. So careful that Maddux might not be able to get his people in position for the all-important kill shot, which needed to happen sooner rather than later.

  “Unfortunately,” Stein kept going, “President Dorn still doesn’t appreciate all that you do and how valuable you are. He says he does, but he doesn’t. However, I guarantee you he will.” He chuckled like what he was about to say was going to sound absolutely ludicrous. “He’s got some pretty crazy notions about what you people do on the side, Roger. I mean, he must be reading some version of the left-wing handbook I’ve never read. It must be the Vermont version. They’re pretty fanatical up there.”

  “What kind of crazy notions are you talking about, Rex?”

  “He thinks you’re running around the country carrying out vigilante justice. He thinks you’re killing criminals who got off on technicalities. He thinks you’re torturing American citizens to get information about the activities of others. He basically thinks you’ve become Big Brother or something. It’s all a massive misunderstanding, Roger. I’m taking care of it, I promise.”

  Carlson laughed sincerely even though he wasn’t being sincere at all. He’d learned a long time ago how important it was to do that. “We protect American citizens.”

  “Of course you do. And he knows that,” Stein assured Carlson. “He just needs a little more time and some more of my coaching.”

  “Maybe you can do me a favor, Rex. I’d certainly appreciate it if you would.”

  Stein’s eyes ran straight to Carlson’s. “Of course. What do you need? Name it.”

  This had been bothering Carlson ever since the president had mentioned it at the end of their last meeting. “Your boss asked me about an individual when he and I last met at the White House. He said there had been an inquiry about him. The individual’s name was Troy Jensen. Can you find out where that inquiry came from and let me know? I sure would appreciate it.”

  Stein nodded. “I’ll get you a name as soon as I can, Roger.”

  The lead
er gazed out from the bridge over the five huge refrigerated holds of the massive LNG tanker Pegasus. Inside those five holds with the domed tops were two hundred thousand cubic meters of liquefied natural gas. The fireball this ship could instantaneously release would dwarf the explosive power of the Olympian, which had somehow failed to destroy Boston. They were still trying to figure out exactly what had happened there. No one at home had yet been able to contact the leader of that ship—or any of the other men who’d been on it.

  He picked up his binoculars and scanned the afternoon sky. They were heading toward the Virginia Beach-Norfolk area of Virginia, not, as they were supposed to be, toward the Elba Island regasification facility that was just downriver from Savannah, Georgia. The clandestine change of direction was on the orders of the same man who’d secured the Olympian her documentation to sail into Boston Harbor. A man who seemed bent on assisting their group’s goal of destroying an American city with a huge fireball from an LNG tanker.

  The beauty of this attack plan was that the Norfolk-Virginia Beach metropolitan area had a population of almost two million people, the ship wouldn’t be subject to any inspections, and he wouldn’t need to present any documentation in order to reach a point near enough to shore to cause incredible damage to that population and its property. It wouldn’t be quite as devastating to the United States as the obliteration of Boston, but the destruction it caused would still be made with an exclamation point. Especially because one of America’s largest naval bases was in Norfolk.

  The trouble with this attack plan was that US officials monitored the movement of all LNG tankers that had their bows aimed at American shores. There was a regasification facility farther up the Chesapeake Bay beyond Virginia Beach and Norfolk called Dominion Point Cove, so those officials wouldn’t be surprised by an LNG tanker heading in that direction. Many did. The problem would come when they tried to figure out why the Pegasus was heading for Norfolk when it was supposed to be heading for Savannah.