by T C Miller
It had taken less than ten minutes to untie and prep the bird for flight and another six minutes to get to the South Shore Lodge.
“Done a few trips in similar ones,” Bart replied. “Gonna set down in that meadow across the road from the front of the lodge. . .Be a five minute hike to the safe house. . .Tell everybody to gear up.”
It was an unnecessary command. They had been ready since leaving the roof of the Majestic Casino.
“Never been in a luxury chopper before,” Joanna commented. “Actually, never been on a helicopter at all, unless you count the ones in front of the Piggly Wiggly that you put quarters in.”
Her remarks brought smiles to the other members of the team.
Bart had decided to let casino security guard the weapons he and Jake disarmed and left Joe Anthony in charge.
Benson, Johansen, Davies, Thomas and Bart, along with the CIA resident staff should be enough to handle the small crew that was attacking the safe house. Nora had told him that Ken Sobiniak thought there were probably a half dozen or so intruders.
Bart wasn’t concerned about the numbers so much as the timing. The attack was well under way and appeared to be backed with solid intelligence.
Their biggest asset might turn out to be the facility. Surveillance equipment, sensors and counter-personnel measures were extensive and supplied a first-line of defense.
He switched on the intercom. “This is not going to be a cavalry charge to the safe house. We’ll move in as two teams. . .Benson and I will go down the main road. Thomas will lead Davies and Johansen down the back service road.
“Suppressed weapons will give us a slight advantage, but when you can, use your hands or your knife to take them out. Just remember, they’re trained and experienced. . .Questions?”
Silence was the only answer as the helicopter touched down in the unlit meadow and the rotors spooled to a stop. Bart was out and opened the door to the passenger cabin so the others could pile out.
They crossed the road and moved past the blast-damaged office as the smell of burnt flesh and wood wafted toward them. A split in the road led either toward the front of the cabins or to the rear service road.
Jake touched Bart on the shoulder as they reached the fork. “Sounds like a chopper coming in over the lake,” he whispered.
“Got it. . .Take the back road. I’ll leave Benson near the front of the safe house while I check out the beach.”
Bart could see a figure about fifty feet in front of them moving covertly down the dirt road using the pine needle-coated surface to mask his movement. He also used the numerous pine trees lining the road as concealment.
Winfield waited until he was close enough to control the situation and whispered, “Freeze. . .One wrong move and I’ll cut you down.”
The figure responded in a low voice that brought memories of joint operations with the Agency, “I’m a federal agent. . .Identify yourself.”
“Winfield, who are you?”
“Bart. . .that you? Ken. . .Ken Sobiniak.” He slowly turned around. “Don’t know of too many people who could get the drop on me. Nora’s in the safe house security center.”
“I know. . .she called. Got here fast as I could.” He motioned for Benson to move up to them.
The sound of a helicopter flying low came over the lake reached them as a muffled wump-wump-wump. “You wanna take the house or the chopper?”
Ken didn’t hesitate. “Don’t have time to give you the passcodes. . .”
“I’ll take Benson to cover me and give the chopper a hot welcome. . .Join you soon as I can.”
Bart and Mary headed for the lake.
REAR OF THE SAFE HOUSE
Jake motioned for Johansen to cover the back of the building to make sure none of the attack team caught them by surprise. Jay took cover behind a dumpster and scanned the area for enemy operatives.
Joanna sneaked up to the kitchen door while Jake covered her and found it locked. She froze at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.
“You better hope you’re with Winfield,” a deep male voice murmured.
“I am,” she answered.
“What’s his first name and his wife’s name?”
“Colonel. . .I mean, Bart. . .and Nora.”
“I’m Ken. . .”
Jake placed the barrel of his weapon squarely in the stranger’s back. “Ken who?”
“Sobiniak. . .Bart sent me to help. . .Damn, that’s twice tonight.”
“That’s Joanna. . .I’m Jake. . .Where’s the Colonel?”
“Taking care of another problem down at the beach. Now that we’ve all been introduced, how ‘bout we take back the safe house?”
Ken flipped over a six-inch long section of the back porch railing to reveal a hidden lighted key pad. He quickly entered an eight digit code. The door opened smoothly with a barely perceptible click and they slipped carefully into the kitchen, weapons at the ready. The smell of fried chicken greeted them and Jake felt his stomach growl. It was way past supper time.
Joanna carefully closed the door and locked it to prevent anybody from catching them by surprise. She followed a few steps behind them.
They paused at the doorway leading into the living room. Two figures dressed all in black were crouched in front of a section of the wall. They were placing det-cord and appeared to have almost completed the task of encircling the panel that hid the security room door.
Jake moved into the room just as one of them turned around. They froze in place and the ninja-like figure reached for the pistol on his belt. . .
SAFE HOUSE BEACH AREA
The Consortium Puma came in low over the lake as it approached the beach near the safe house. The pilot waited until it was a few yards from land and executed a sharp ninety degree turn to place it parallel to the shore line. It hovered six feet above the water as he crabbed sideways until he was just over dry land.
“Don’t see anybody. . .You? he asked the copilot.
They had both scanned the trees in back of the beach with night vision and infrared.
“Nothing bigger than a chipmunk,” he answered.
“Guess we’re okay. . .Open the cargo door.”
Hans gave the sliding door a powerful pull and as it slid open he saw a figure step out from behind a tree and run full speed toward the chopper. “Uh, what the. . .”
His words were unintelligible to the flight crew and they continued to hover.
The running figure pulled the pin from an M15 white phosphorus grenade and tossed it at the open door.
Hans recognized the familiar gray grenade, known as a Willy Pete, by the yellow band of color around it and desperately tried to slam the door shut.
The incendiary device hit the edge of the door, ricocheted into the cabin, bounced off the bulkhead behind the co-pilot’s seat and landed in the lap of one of the team members.
“Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God!”
The fuse ignited fifteen ounces of phosphorus and the surprised team member instantly had a five-thousand degree inferno between his legs.
His shrill scream was almost inhuman. He instinctively grabbed the device, burning his fingers to the bone in an instant as he tried to fling it out the now closed door.
The sizzling grenade careened and fell between the pilot and copilot as it blossomed into a full burn.
Smoke rapidly filled the interior and blinded everyone. The stench of burning flesh permeated the air.
The Puma rocked back and forth and tilted crazily one way and then another as the pilot reflexively moved it away from the landing zone and any further threat. It traveled about fifty yards offshore before the raging inferno reached the fuel tanks.
The massive yellow and orange fireball flared out in all directions as the flaming craft dropped into the water with a thud and a splash.
Bart ran to the edge of the beach in time to see the ball of white fire slowly sink into the 1,645 foot depths of the lake.
The phosphorus continued to burn brightly underwater,
consuming the craft and its occupants as they disappeared into the inky depths.
Bart turned and headed back toward the safe house with Benson trailing him. He approached quietly from the side and spotted the figure Nora had mentioned crouching in the underbrush. The smell of pine needles wafted up as he moved up behind the man dressed all in black. Bart placed a combat knife against the man’s throat.
“Move a muscle and it’ll be the last thing you ever do,” he hissed. “Hold your weapon to the side and drop it.”
He complied. “Now, kneel down and cross your legs. . .
Good. Put your hands behind your back. . .”
The enemy agent started to whirl around. Bart slammed the pommel of the knife against his head and watched him fall helplessly to the ground.
He used zip ties on the prone figure’s hands and ankles and left him curled up on the ground in a fetal position.
Bart whistled quietly for Benson. She joined him from the lookout position where she had taken cover. They moved up to the gaping holes where the front windows had been and peered cautiously in.
The two Consortium men inside were almost finished rigging the det cord. One was twisting wires together and connecting them to a detonator while the other gathered up tools. The operative who was collecting tools suddenly stopped and turned toward the kitchen as he started to pull a weapon from his belt.
Bart leaned in the window with the MAC-10 and commanded, “Drop what you’re holding and raise your hands.”
At the same time, Jake barked, “Move and you die.”
The befuddled man looked back and forth at Bart and then Jake. “Don’t shoot. . .I’ll tell you anything you want to know. . .”
The other enemy agent began to lower his right hand toward a leg holster.
“Not a smart move. . .One second to make a choice. . .live or die. . .Choose wisely,” Bart offered.
The Consortium agent raised his hands and his accomplice followed suit. “Ain’t gettin’ paid to die.”
“Smart man,” Bart replied. “Hands behind your head, lock your fingers.”
The two men started to comply when the one who had been rigging the charges reached down into his collar and extracted a wicked looking knife with a six-inch double-sided blade. He plunged it hilt-deep into his partner’s heart and turned it around to throw at Bart.
Bart fired a quick burst that stitched him across the chest. Blood gushed out of his mouth as he dropped to the floor like a wet newspaper—dead before he got there.
“So much for questions,” Bart commented.
Jake and Joanna joined Bart, Mary and Ken them in the living room.
Winfield leaned back and looked up in the direction of the hidden camera. “Hey darlin’. . .Mind lettin’ us in?”
Nora closed the cover on the dungeon drop actuator and flicked a switch to release the electronic lock. She ran to the security room safe door and twirled the wheels that unlocked it. The last bolt released and she tugged the door open.
Bart swept Nora up in his arms. “My sweet baby,” he whispered in her ear.
“My knight in shining armor,” she whispered back. Her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck as they held each other in a tight embrace.
Ken searched the dead agents for any useful information and found a frequent-user reward card from a Sacramento strip club. It was the only clue to their identities. “Guess, this is all we get. . .Everything else is a dead-end.”
“Wouldn’t be so sure,” Benson said. “We’re beginning to establish a pattern of weaponry and clothing from a number of cases over the last five years.”
“Who are they?” Bart asked.
“Don’t know. . .still gathering intel.”
“They’re outfitted like a real TAC team,” Nora observed. “Whoever’s backing them doesn’t mind spending a boatload of cash.”
“Sure don’t,” Ken agreed. “If it was still the Cold War, I’d say the Soviets. . .But since they’re more or less off the playing field. . .who knows?”
Bart interrupted their speculation, “Whoa, almost forgot, we have a prisoner. . .Maybe we can get something out of him.”
The group gathered around the still-prone figure in black in front of the safe house and shined their flashlights on him. He was bleeding around the wrists where he had tried to free himself.
Bart was the first to speak, “Struggling is useless, pilgrim. . .Calm down and answer my questions.”
He yanked the black balaclava mask from the captives head and lit his face with the flashlight. “Who are you. . .and who sent you?”
A sullen stare was the only reply. The Colonel studied the young man’s face and a feeling of deja vu swept over him like a wave. Something about this captive was familiar. He leaned in closer and looked into the root-beer brown eyes. “Do you recognize him?”
Nora had been standing in back of the rest of the group and stepped forward to get a better look. She crouched down and moved closer.
The look of shock on the captive’s face grew with each heartbeat. He cleared his throat and spoke in a wavering voice, “Mom?”
***
EPILOGUE
NSA WEST COAST HEADQUARTERS
SOUTH SAN FRANCISCO BAY
They gathered in a secure conference room in a nondescript building across the street from a bay side trucking terminal. No signs identified the sole tenant of the four-story structure and mirrored glass prevented any view of the interior.
Entry to the facility was made through a double gate by contacting a security guard on an intercom system. The unseen guard opened it only after he checked a list of authorized visitors and ID was verified by an encrypted, closed-circuit television system.
A security post next to the elevator lobby allowed visitors to finally put a face to the guard through green-tinted, six-inchthick glass that could withstand the explosive force of a rocket-propelled grenade.
The elevator car was also hardened and could be sealed off with the flip of a switch to become a holding cell.
Each meeting attendee went through careful searches and was swept for recording and transmitting devices before entering the executive conference room. Security was tight because the most coveted secrets of the nation were discussed openly in the room.
The Director sat at the head of the table and rarely spoke, although clearly in charge. Visibly nervous agents directed their briefings to him. They seldom had an opportunity for face-to-face time with the old man—a legend in their line of work and knew that a few words from him could make or break a career.
He listened intently to elaborate slide presentations while an aide asked an occasional question or two. Finally, he turned to address the dozen people gathered around the conference table. “Thank you all for your valuable input. I don’t think this affair could have been handled any better and I want to especially single out agents Benson and Johansen for their quick thinking and creative fieldwork.”
The two agents tried to appear nonchalant, but still sat a little higher in their chairs. Praise was doled out sparingly and usually through an interoffice memo. Hearing it in person made it so much sweeter.
They knew the door to future promotions had opened a crack and were eager to wedge it open wider. The same door, however, could just as easily slam shut if mistakes were made.
The Director continued, “As you know, this case is far from closed, at least for our agency. This Eichner character is still on the loose with nuclear material. . .including a BlackStar system. That cannot be allowed to continue.
“The public version we released says Eichner died in a highway accident on a two-lane blacktop road in the Sierra Nevada mountains. It took local rescue teams a day to reach the wreckage and recover a mangled body that was burned beyond recognition. A clandestine switch of fingerprint and dental records ensured the body was identified as Eichner by the local coroner. The complete lack of family members means the body will be stored in a secure walk-in cooler from which it will eventually disappear.
“A cover story was created to leave the impression of a disgruntled, degenerate gambler who was trying to extort money from the casino. Their management was happy to go along with the tale, since it painted them in a favorable light.
“The device in the casino theater was labeled a bomb only after it was replaced by a credible mockup of something a knowledgeable person could build with readily available plans.”
He took a slow drink of water and continued, “Joe Anthony was publicly credited for disarming the device and no mention was made of either our NSA team or their companion agents from Mather Air Force Base. I appreciate the discretion that has been shown up to this point and here’s how I want this wrapped up.”
The Director swiveled his chair to address Benson and Johansen, “You will head the effort to recover the two missing devices and be given a number where I can be reached directly. I want a report every twenty-four hours. . .or sooner, if you encounter an emergency.
“Try to capture him without harm. . .Which means alive and in one piece. We need to interrogate him about many things, not just this incident. I have a feeling he’ll prove valuable in uncovering other Soviet moles, as well as giving us more information about the operation of other foreign intelligence organizations. . .Remember, even the smallest detail can complete the puzzle.”
It was a favorite saying of the director and was constantly emphasized at the Agency’s training centers.
He leaned back in his chair. “I talked with the Secretary of Defense today. He wants their materiel, as he refers to the weapons, back in military hands as soon as possible. He also demanded that Air Force personnel be involved in the secret search for Eichner.”
The Director sighed heavily. “My first inclination was to forcefully decline their assistance, but then I thought about the people from Mather and reconsidered. They worked well with you and their desire to avoid public exposure was admirable. I want you back here in two hours with plans to track and capture Eichner with their assistance. . .Questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. . .Do your research and get back here ASAP.”