Night Strike

by Michael W. Sherer

  “So, the mice return when they think the cat he is sleeping.” Grigori grinned, a facial expression he didn’t often use from the effort it took. “Come. We join others.”

  Grigori herded us outside, around the side of the house and up the slope to the front. He made me lead, and when I reached the door he told me to open it. I pushed through and stepped into the small foyer.

  “Ah, guests,” a voice said from the living room to the right.

  I barely had time to register movement as Marko stood and headed my way when a scuffle broke out behind me. Turning, I saw Reyna stomp on Grigori’s instep and throw an elbow into his gut. He grunted, grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. She yelped and my vision turned red. I took a step toward him. He aimed the gun at me above her shoulder and pushed her forward, backing me up into Marko’s grip. His hands wrapped around my biceps, and he pulled my arms back until the elbows nearly touched. He roughly jerked me around and marched me into the living room.

  Dmitrov sat in an easy chair calmly taking in our entrance. Peter and Chance sat side by side on the floor, backs against the wall, Peter cowed and frightened, Chance upright and defiant. Both looked uncomfortable with their hands tied behind their backs.

  “About time you got here,” Chance said. “These people don’t know how to party at all.”

  Grigori shoved Reyna hard, and she went sprawling onto a couch.

  “Who’s this?” Dmitrov said, his eyes giving Reyna a full-body scan.

  “She was with him,” Grigori said. “Downstairs.”

  “She’s a friend,” I said. “Leave her out of this.”

  “A little late for that,” Dmitrov said.

  Grigori turned to me, and tucked the gun in his waistband before he smashed a fist in my gut, doubling me over. When I was able to raise my head, his lips stretched over his teeth in his imitation of a smile and he hit me again. And again. I strained and twisted against Marko’s grip, but Marko held tight. He planted a foot in the back of my knee, collapsing my leg, I went down onto both knees. After Grigori split my lip I lost count of how many more times I felt his fists or open hands smack into some part of my anatomy. Over the roaring in my ears I heard Peter squealing at Grigori to stop. And between blows I saw that one of the hands resting in Dmitrov’s lap now held a small semiautomatic that more or less pointed in Reyna’s direction.

  “Enough!” Dmitrov barked.

  I hung my head near my knees like I’d catch my breath somewhere down there. In the span of an interminable two minutes, Grigori had managed to bruise what felt like every square inch of me. Only Marko’s grip kept me on my feet. Then he let go. I fell face first onto Peter’s contemporary wool and silk rug, the resulting nosebleed dripping red all over it. When it dried and turned russet it might complement the design.

  “Mr. Sanders, I warned you not to withhold anything from me,” Dmitrov said. “So now here we are. You forced me to impose on your friends’ hospitality. And Grigori has had to teach you a lesson in manners. Now, who is she?” He waggled the barrel of his gun in Reyna’s direction.

  “A friend, I told you,” I gasped.

  Grigori raised a hand.

  “Wait!” Reyna said. “I’m a naval intelligence officer.”

  Dmitrov’s eyes widened briefly, and he reappraised me. “You brought her into this?”

  Reyna shook her head vehemently. “We know each other. I came on my own. I’m under investigation, so I’m doing some investigating of my own.”

  Brows knitting, Dmitrov considered the new information. “No matter. Sanders, why don’t you give me what belongs to me?”

  I got onto all fours and pointed to the water bottle I’d dropped after the first few body shots.

  Dmitrov’s face darkened. “You think this is a joke?”

  “I’m not smiling,” I said.

  Dmitrov motioned to Grigori who picked up the bottle and tossed it to his boss. Dmitrov held it up in front of his face and examined it, turning the bottle slowly. Finally, he grunted in satisfaction and stood up.

  “That wasn’t so hard,” he said. “Marko, make them comfortable.”

  Marko yanked Reyna off the couch, spun her around and pulled her arms behind her back.

  “You got what you wanted,” I said through gritted teeth. “Cut them loose.”

  “I think not,” Dmitrov said. “We’ll keep you all here a little longer until we see if these are the right circuits.”

  Marko finished binding Reyna’s hands with plastic cable ties and roughly sat her down against the wall next to the fireplace.

  “You don’t trust me, fine,” I said. “I get it. Keep me and let the rest go.”

  “Eight hours, Mr. Sanders. Then I decide whether to let you go. And if these aren’t what I asked for I kill you one at a time until I get the right ones.”

  A moan escaped Peter’s lips. Chance turned and murmured in his ear.

  Marko stood behind me and jerked one of my arms behind me, looped a tie over one hand and pulled it tight on my wrist. I knew struggling was useless.

  “Damn it, Dmitrov, I pulled those off a dead man’s eyes! There are no others.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He moved toward the door but stopped to answer his cell phone. “Yes?… Where?… You’re sure it’s her?… Give me an address… What do you mean you don’t have an address? Where the hell is she?… Fine, that will have to do.”

  As he slipped the phone into his pocket, he turned to Marko. “I need you. Grigori, keep our friends company. I’ll bring Marko back to relieve you shortly.”

  My stomach clenched into a hard knot. I clamped my jaw to keep from screaming at him to leave Anya alone. I sent up a fervent hope that he’d been talking about some other woman, but the dread and anger churning in my gut said otherwise.

  Chapter 32

  July 27—North Pacific Ocean

  “Sir, Admiral, sir!”

  Orlov turned to see the starshina who’d just entered the bridge snap a salute. Orlov returned it and motioned to the enlisted man to stand at ease.

  “Communiqué for you, sir.”

  Orlov took the folded piece of paper from the sailor’s outstretched hand and quickly read the three words scribbled there: “Incoming satphone call.”

  “Spasibo, starshina,” he said with a short salute of dismissal.

  The sailor returned the salute and stood at attention as Orlov headed for the door. As was tradition, the helmsman announced his departure. The radioman exited the bridge two steps behind him. Orlov paid no attention until he heard the door close and the starshina call out softly, “Sir?”

  He paused in the passageway and turned his head, waiting.

  “You asked me to monitor the L-band, sir,” the sailor said, fumbling with a button on his uniform. “There was activity not more than fifteen minutes ago.”

  “For how long?”

  The sailor shrugged. “A minute or two.”

  “Spasibo. Thank you again.”

  The radioman nodded and headed down the passageway. Orlov hurried to his quarters to take the incoming call. He’d feared the starshina’s news, but hadn’t been surprised.

  Retrieving the satellite phone from its cubbyhole, Orlov sat down at his desk and connected the call.

  “Leonid, my friend.”

  Orlov smiled at the sound of Subkov’s voice. “Mikhail. I hope you have good news.”

  “I do, in fact. The parts you need are in route. They’ll arrive in Unalaska at about oh-eight-hundred tomorrow.”

  “I can dispatch the Ka-27 to pick them up, but it will have to fly in under radar. The Americans will scream bloody murder if they catch even so much as a sniff of our presence.”

  “Our man has instructions to hire a small float plane once he arrives. There’s an abandoned airstrip on the north side of the island.” Subkov gave Orlov the coordinates.

  “And the pilot?” Orlov said.

  “He’ll ask no questions, and he’ll be paid well. Don’t
worry, he won’t talk.”

  “If I don’t worry, who will?

  “Trust me. We’re very close, now. We won’t fail.”

  Orlov debated telling Subkov the news he’d received from the starshina that someone else on board had a satellite phone, and had made or received a call less than half an hour earlier.

  “I appreciate your confidence,” he said finally. “But we haven’t won until we’ve shown the world that we can cripple the Americans’ most sophisticated nuclear warships.”

  “We will prevail, Admiral.”

  “I hope and pray you’re right,” Orlov said and disconnected the call.

  But too many things could go wrong, especially with the presence of a saboteur on board. Orlov set the phone down and steepled his fingers, considering how best to set a trap for a spy.

  Chapter 33

  July 28—Suitland, Maryland

  Tolliver squinted and moved in until her nose was nearly touching the monitor. What she read didn’t make sense. She frowned and leaned back, rubbing her eyes. Fatigue washed over her. She took a sip from the mug of coffee next to her keyboard and made a face. Cold and bitter, it would do little to keep the tiredness at bay. But she could push through it if she focused on the puzzle in front of her.

  She wasn’t sure who’d first coined the phrase—she thought it was from that film on Watergate, the one with Redford and Hoffmann as Washington Post reporters—but she’d decided to “follow the money.” The problem wasn’t access to the Lodestar contract—she had high enough clearance to get into most navy databases. But she’d have to log in, which would leave a trail right back to her.

  She’d considered calling Justin, the kid with the hots for her who lived in her apartment complex. He’d hit on her several times when he’d seen her returning from work. At first, she’d assumed he was joking, but after he’d commented on her appearance a couple of times, she thought maybe he either was into older women or women in uniform. Maybe both. He wasn’t a bad looking kid. Maybe eight years younger than her. A little rough around the edges. Long hair, usually clean but unkempt. A wardrobe that leaned toward torn jeans and untucked plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled up. But a sweet face, slender but muscular body, maybe from running. So she’d checked him out. No arrests or convictions (thank God!). A steady job in a grocery store (as an assistant manager, at least, not a bagboy). And a hobby that had led to trouble as a teen.

  Justin was a computer hacker. His juvie record had been sealed, but Janet had been able to get the gist of the trouble he’d been in at fifteen. He seemed to have kept his nose clean since then. But especially after her divorce Janet held everyone a little suspect until they proved themselves. It occurred to her that Justin’s advances might have been an attempt to get close to her to see what navy secrets she might reveal. The kids had been persistent, though, so she’d impulsively agreed to his invitation to have a glass of wine one evening when she’d gotten home. She’d ended up liking him, though not in a romantic sense, and they’d actually gotten to be more than passing acquaintances.

  She didn’t want to involve him, though, in this business. Bad enough that she was taking the kind of risks that would cost her more than her job if discovered, but she’d already crossed that bridge. Reyna really needed her help. And Justin didn’t need someone to lead him astray. She knew he still dabbled at the edges of the hacker community, but their friendship had grown to the point that she didn’t think he’d gone back to his youthful and rebellious ways.

  She’d even reached for the phone at one point earlier that morning to call him, but had hesitated, thinking it through. And wondered what he would do in her position. Find a back door, of course. Finding a way in had taken some time—Justin probably would have been able to do it easily—but she’d wormed her way into the system and now stared at a copy of Lodestar’s navy contract, 117 pages of legal jargon and estimated budgets. She’d waded through some of the performance clauses to find out what Lodestar had promised to deliver, most of that nearly indecipherable, too. But it was the budgets that interested her most. She was trying to compare those to invoices already submitted and paid.

  After poring over the numbers for nearly three hours, she found some items that stirred her excitement. One of the addenda to the contract was a recent budget for additional research on one of the Lodestar projects. It was an invoice against that budget that caught her eye. Someone had requisitioned a plane nearly a month earlier out of Andrews AFB. Not a passenger jet, but a military transport. She wondered why. As she sat back and let thoughts churn through her brain she suddenly knew who might be able to tell her.

  Frank Pospisil was a dispatch supervisor over at Andrews. She’d been seated next to him at a navy fundraiser, a dinner auction for one of the groups she supported—either Yellow Ribbon Fund or the Family Readiness Group, she couldn’t remember which. Dreading the small talk, she’d actually found him charming. It turned out he was one of the organizers, and he’d tapped her to work on another fundraising project. Janet figured he owed her. She glanced at her watch. Early, but he might already be at work. She pulled up the contacts list on her cell phone and dialed his work number. To her surprise, he answered on the first ring.

  “Pospisil. Dispatch.”

  “Frank? This is Janet Tolliver.”

  “Chief Tolliver! What a pleasure. You’re up awfully early.”

  “Haven’t gone to bed yet.”

  “Uh-oh. Burning the midnight oil. You need your beauty sleep. Sorry, that came out wrong. No offense.”

  She laughed. “None taken. But now you really owe me.”

  “What’s up?”

  She decided to give him the facts, if not the whole truth, since they sounded plausible enough. “I’m looking into a navy contractor, and some of the budget items don’t add up. I’ve got a line item for a research project that doesn’t make sense—a military transport requisitioned out of there on July Fourth.”

  “A patriotic day to fly. What’s the problem?”

  “The contractor’s located in Seattle, Frank. That’s where the research is done.”

  “So, you want me to find out where this plane was going and what its payload was.”

  “Is it possible? Can you do it?”

  Frank chuckled. “You know we don’t do anything unless it’s backed up in triplicate. Shouldn’t be a problem, Janet.”

  “Thanks, Frank. Count on me for an extra fifty bucks for FRG this year.”

  “As long as you’ll sit with me again.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Give me twenty, thirty minutes. I’ll call you back.”

  She gave him her cell number and turned back to the computer. Follow the money.

  Chapter 34

  July 28—North Pacific Ocean

  The incessant rumble of the engines and the vibration reverberating through the steel deck, no matter how slight at this distance, lulled him closer and closer to sleep. The strain of maintaining his composure and cover in the midst of the enemy was taking its toll. His eyelids grew heavy as he tried to focus on the blurry words in the harsh pool of light from the desk lamp. His head nodded, and he caught himself with a jerk, snapping his eyes open and checking his surroundings and the clock on the wall.

  He had no patients to check on. Lab results on the sailor in isolation had shown him to have nothing more serious than a bad cold, not SARS or avian flu or any number of other diseases that could spread through the ship like wildfire. With the danger past, the sailor had been deemed fit enough to return to duty. The Chechen was alone in the quiet calm before dawn. A wry smile came to his lips as he considered the irony. For the typical matros on board, the concepts of day and night, dusk and dawn, didn’t exist. Instead, sailors lived their lives by bells. The ringing of bells told them when to wake, when to eat, when to shit and when to work in the windowless environments of their stations. They worked and slept under artificial lighting, not seeing sun, moon or stars until they were in port or on leave. Their onl
y indication of the conditions outside was the pitch and roll of the ship. Others were luckier, with stations or duties that took them above deck.

  He pushed the reading material on the desk aside and thought again of his plan, how best to make it work, considering all that could go wrong, weighing options, contingencies. For a few days now he’d noted his target’s routine, especially at mealtime. That would be the ideal time to strike. And it had to be soon. Though initially a surprise, everyone on board now knew of Admiral Orlov’s presence on board. The Chechen had been pleased. His plan would have that much more impact if the former head of the Northern Fleet died or was injured at his hands. Even if Orlov wasn’t incapacitated, sabotage on his watch, his own ship, would end his career.

  But only a few of the officers knew their mission, their destination. The mystery had been one of the subjects of murmured conversations in the mess and crew quarters. The Chechen didn’t care except that he didn’t know how much time he had. He sensed his window of opportunity closing, and that worried him. He had to act soon. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the next watch. He heard footsteps in the passageway outside the office door, and looked up to see Rostropovich poke his head through the opening.

  “You’re early,” he said, frowning.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Rostropovich said. “Thought maybe you could, so I came to offer you a few extra minutes in your bunk if you want them.”

  The Chechen smoothed his brow and gave a slight nod. A little more sleep if he could manage it would be welcome. He rose and stretched, stifling a yawn. Suddenly, he sensed a change in the air, in the vibrations beneath his feet. He stiffened and listened. Very faint, but definitely present, the sound of another engine made its way into his consciousness.