Night Strike

by Michael W. Sherer

She glanced at my fingers drumming the tabletop and then looked at me. “I’m working on it. Might have to improvise.”

  “Care to clue me in?”

  “Just go with the flow.” She looked at my nearly empty coffee cup. “You ready?”

  I looked at my watch, startled. The post office didn’t open for another half-hour, but I drained the cup in one swallow and nodded. She headed for the door and I hustled to catch up.

  A few cars sat in back of the post office lot, so some employees had already arrived. Reyna parked nearby and walked to the back door. I stood a couple of yards away. With a here-goes-nothing roll of her eyes, she pounded on the back door with the heel of her fist.

  “Open up! Federal agent!” She kept on pounding.

  A harried looking woman opened the door a crack and peered out. “We’re not open yet.”

  “Federal agent, ma’am,” Reyna said. “Are you the Postmaster?”

  The woman shook her graying head. “What’s this about?”

  “I need to see the Postmaster, now,” Reyna said firmly, flashing her ID card. She hooked the edge of the door with her fingers and pulled it open. “Take me to him, please.”

  The woman bent over and peered at the ID in Reyna’s hand. “Naval intelligence? What…?”

  Reyna shouldered her way past.

  “Hey, wait! You can’t just come in here!”

  “The hell I can’t,” Reyna said. “Ever hear of the Patriot Act? Come on, Agent Sanders.”

  Hiding my surprise, I followed Reyna and stopped a few feet inside the door.

  A voice called out from somewhere beyond the rows of rolling racks of mail. “What’s going on back there, Hien?” A tall, thin man with Asian features and white hair in a postal uniform emerged from the gloom. A pair of half-frame reading glasses dangled on a cord around his neck, swinging as he walked.

  “Federal agent, sir,” Reyna said briskly. “Commander Reyna Chase with the Office of Naval Intelligence. I need to speak with you immediately about a matter of national security.”

  The man looked at his employee, frowned and took Reyna’s ID from her outstretched hand. He scrutinized it, handed it back and turned, crooking his hand. “This way.”

  He led the way to the only office in the large building, let us precede him through the door and indicated we should take a seat. He sat and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk.

  “What can I do for naval intelligence?” he said.

  “Sir, we have reason to believe that the U.S. mail was used recently in direct violation of Title 18, Chapter 37, section 797, Gathering or Delivering Defense Information to Aid Foreign Government. Blake, show him the receipt.”

  Hastily, I dug in my pocket and pulled out the postage receipt and handed it across the desk. The postmaster took it and glanced at it briefly.

  “We need to know the address where that package was delivered,” Reyna said, inclining her head.

  “I can’t tell you that,” the postmaster said.

  Reyna leaned forward and stared at him. “You can, and you will. Per Title V, section 505 of the USA Patriot Act, you were issued an NSL to provide us with any and all information pertinent to this case.”

  Confusion clouded his face. “A National Security Letter? You’re kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding, sir? In the past six hours, my partner and I were kidnapped by the terrorists who conducted this espionage. As you can see, we were beaten and even shot at. Fortunately, we escaped with our lives, but I’m in no mood to be dicked around by a USPS bureaucrat when national security and people’s lives are at stake.”

  His face darkened further. “There’s no need for insults, Commander. The problem is I never received an NSL.”

  “Oh, isn’t that just like the post office?” Sarcasm dripped from her voice. “You mean to tell me that USPS couldn’t deliver it on time?”

  He opened his mouth, thought better of what he was about to say, and closed it. He tried again. “What you’re telling me is quite fantastic. And without the NSL you want me to just take it on faith?”

  Reyna kept her voice low and even. “Several people have died already because of this. We almost did ourselves an hour ago. You want bonafides? Fine. You can call the COMONI, the head of the Office of Naval Intelligence. I’ll give you his direct line. Here you go. Got a pencil?”

  The postmaster scrubbed the air in front of his face. “No, no, that’s fine. I’ll take your word for it. This shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  He picked up the receipt, but before looking at it this time he raised his reading glasses with one hand and perched them on the bridge of his nose.

  “Yes, it’s trackable delivery.” He got up and rounded the desk. “If you’ll follow me, I can check this on the computer.”

  He took us to the front counter and slid into one of the customer service bays. Keying in his employee code, he woke up the terminal and then keyed in the tracking number on the receipt. A minute later he handed Reyna a slip of paper on which he’d jotted down the address.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with, Commander?” His tone belied the wide-eyed look of innocence.

  Reyna offered a brief smile as a courtesy. “No, thank you. But I’ll be sure to mention to my superiors how cooperative you’ve been.”

  * * * * *

  The address was three stories of 1970s contemporary northwest apartments with a view of Alderwood Mall for those lucky enough to have one. Eerily similar to the complex Masha had lived in, the place gave me a bad feeling as soon as we turned in and looked for Anya’s building. The monotony of wood siding painted a neutral beige, a small balcony in front of glass sliders in every apartment made it impossible to tell one building from another. As we wound through the parking lot I spotted a wooden “D” affixed to one of the buildings and pointed it out. Reyna parked and got out. I climbed out reluctantly.

  She paused on the sidewalk. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. “The phone call Dmitrov got last night… He took Marko. We’re not going to like what we find.”

  “You want to wait in the car while I check it out?”

  I shook my head. “Better to know for sure. Come on, let’s go.”

  We climbed the outdoor staircase to the third floor and made our way down the covered walkway to the apartment listed on the address. I tried to think positively. The call to Dmitrov had been other business. We’d find Anya and the girl safe and sound. But the sight of splintered wood around the latch reached down inside me and squeezed. Reyna put a finger to her lips and motioned me to the side as she pulled her HK45 Compact. Silently, she put the fingers of her free hand to the door and pushed gently. It swung open and she stepped inside.

  Like the flies drawn to the feed trough inside, I felt myself pulled in. Reyna stood at the edge of the linoleum floor in the kitchen, lips parted so she could breathe through her mouth. I knew why as soon as the stench hit me. The floor was dark with the pool of sticky, half-dried blood. The figure tied to the chair in the middle of the kitchen barely resembled a human. Slumped and deflated from the loss of blood, it looked more like an empty sack of flesh into which someone had jammed bones. They poked against skin here and there. Hair matted with blood and vomit hung in clumps over her face. Her feet were charred from electrocution.

  And she’d soiled herself. The ultimate indignity, though she’d probably already been dead when her bowels let loose.

  Reyna moved out of my line of sight, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the horror in front of me. This was one train wreck I desperately wanted to turn away from, but something more than morbid interest kept my gaze glued to what was left of the poor wretch. Fear forced me to confront what had been done to her. I could either wallow in it, cower under tables and jump at unexpected noises, or I could channel it into something that might keep me alive—rage.

  I jerked my head around, tearing my eyes away, and looked for Reyna. She was down the hall poking her head through a doorway
. She turned back and shook her head when she saw me looking her way.

  “There’s no sign of the girl,” she said.

  Somewhere in the distance, the yowl of a siren rose and fell.

  Chapter 42

  July 28—North Pacific Ocean

  Macready had checked on the one patient in sickbay, had completed his paperwork, and now lay on an exam table in one of the surgery suites staring at the steel deck plating that formed the ceiling above him. Frustration as heavy and viscous as lava weighed on his chest. He’d been out of contact for too long, certain that by now he was presumed dead or MIA. He wanted nothing more than to retrieve his satellite phone from its hiding place and check in, but he had little to report. He hadn’t learned enough yet, about either the laser the Russians had built aboard the research vessel or the destroyer’s mission.

  He reconsidered what he knew. The crew had mounted the laser on one of the chopper’s external hardpoints, like a weapon. But the device was nowhere near as large as the laser cannons the U.S. Navy had deployed on some of its ships. And from what he’d been able to glean aboard the research vessel, the rare earths recovered from the mine on Greenland, when used to dope optic fiber, would produce light in the blue-green range, somewhere between 526 and 668 terahertz. Based on what little Macready knew about lasers, that suggested the Russians intended to use it for communications. But with whom?

  The ship’s course also perplexed him. They’d plied the seas due south for days now, a heading that would put them in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. A long way from home for a flagship of the Northern Fleet. Macready knew he was missing something, some crucial piece of information that eluded him. But as hard as he wracked his brain, the strain of the past three weeks had blunted his mental acuity. The sensation of not being at the top of his game irked him. Was he getting too old for this game? A fraction of a step slower, maybe, but the wealth of experience he had to draw upon more than made up for that.

  Sounds from the passageway outside the surgery suite brought his focus back. He listened for a moment, then swung his legs over the edge of the table and silently padded to the door. He opened the door slowly and poked his head out. At the end of the hall, Dudayev stopped in front of a gurney outside the medical officer’s office. He stood unmoving for a moment, hands on hips. As if coming to a decision, he suddenly took hold of the rail on the gurney and rolled it into the office to keep it from blocking the passageway. The door to the office swung shut.

  Macready frowned at the odd behavior. As if lying on an operating table staring at the ceiling is normal. He’d told the orderly on duty to restock all the supply cabinets to give him something to do, and had shown him how to rearrange the linen closet. He went to check on the midshipman’s progress, and complimented him on the quality of his work. Then he sat at the small reception desk and took out a research paper he’d found in the office. The technical language, especially in Cyrillic script, was beyond his grasp, but he understood the gist of the piece. And, as had been the case years ago when he was a student, at least he looked busy. Inside he chafed at the inactivity, the vexation of doing nothing.

  Footsteps sounded down the passageway. Macready glanced up and saw Dudayev walking toward reception. He quickly got to his feet and saluted.

  Dudayev returned it impatiently, as if the formality was a chore. “Lyeytyenant Rostropovich, I didn’t see you on my way in.”

  “I must have been on rounds,” Macready said. “Of course, with so many patients, that took all of two minutes.”

  Dudayev allowed himself a small smile. “Yes, well, if you think you can handle the caseload, I think I will try to get in a nap before my next watch.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Macready said. “Sleep well.”

  “Da. Spasibo.”

  Macready watched him disappear into the passageway outside sickbay, waited a count of thirty, and walked back to Dudayev’s office. The gurney looked perfectly normal, draped with a fresh sheet. On the shelf below Macready saw a medical bag. He crouched and grabbed the handle, but it resisted when he pulled on it trying to slide it to the edge of the shelf. Its weight surprised him. He opened it, peered in and let out a low whistle.

  The ordnance inside the bag might not cure a headache but sure would obliterate one.

  Chapter 43

  July 27—Moscow

  A sheen of perspiration coated Subkov’s face. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow and neck. Even at the relatively late hour the air was still warm, and quite humid. A ridge of high pressure had built over the city, resulting in days that had reached into the 90s and nights that had rarely cooled below 72 degrees F. The weather system also had essentially put a dome over Moscow, trapping the city’s pollution. Subkov smelled the diesel fumes and exhaust from the day’s traffic, the burning coal from power plants and factories, and the acrid air burned his eyes and irritated his nose. His breath was short, too, but that had as much to do with the past four hours of exertion as the poor air quality.

  During those hours he’d run the gantlet of FSB’s surveillance, teasing and testing to draw out potential watchers. Employing crossovers, switchbacks, circling and every evasive move he could remember from both his training and his years of experience, he’d worked his way through the city. He’d marked colors and shapes, looking for repeat pedestrians and vehicles, eyes constantly moving, looking up, back, to each side of the street, checking for anomalies, heads poking out of open windows, sudden changes of movement or direction by passersby. Sounds had registered without him even thinking about them—the hum of an electric bus and the ping of the contacts on the overhead wires; car horns playing an angry duet at a traffic light; a drunken argument between a husband and wife from an open window; music drifting from a radio in a taxi parked at a cab stand. By the time he’d arrived in this quiet neighborhood he was convinced he was black, free from any sweeps or surveillance teams.

  He checked his watch. Nearly 11 p.m. The sky had turned a dusky, deep violet the color of a new bruise, and the streetlights had come on. When he looked up, there at the end of the block, a large man in a lightweight suit turned the corner and walked toward him slowly. Right on time.

  A Tvetsnaya Bolonka on a leash trailed the man by a few feet, its short legs churning to keep up with the man’s sedate pace. The dog’s nails scritched and clacked on the pavement like tap shoes on a dance floor. A yellow bow on the little dog’s forehead kept its long coat out of its eyes. Subkov smiled at how ridiculous the poor thing looked, but crouched and held out his hand as the pair approached. The dog eagerly snuffed Subkov’s palm looking for a treat and happily let Subkov run his fingers through its coat and scratch behind its ears.

  “Pleasant evening for a stroll,” Subkov said.

  “A bit warm for my taste,” the man replied, “but cooler than home when the power substation can’t provide enough electricity to run the air conditioning properly.”

  Subkov stood. He barely came up to the big man’s chin. “It’s good to see you, Yakov.”

  Deputy Chief of Staff Yakov Pasternak gestured to the empty sidewalk, and the two men fell into step. “We are growing concerned, Mikhail, that this venture could fail. Perhaps this is not the right time.”

  “Volodya has gone too far. You know that. The more aggression he exerts, the more popular he becomes. Madness. What’s next? Kazakhstan? Kyrgyzstan? We have to discredit him before he starts invading NATO countries like Estonia.”

  “Which used to be under our sphere of influence, don’t forget.”

  “That’s the point. He wants to reunite the Soviet bloc again. To what purpose? His saber-rattling will put us in an untenable position with the West.”

  Pasternak waved dismissively. “It’s ego. Nothing more.”

  As second in command under Putin’s chief of staff, Pasternak would know.

  “We all agreed, Yakov. The Soviet Union is better left for dead. What matters now is Russia. Vova has made us a pariah nation. We need to show t
he people we can be strong and still command respect. Can you imagine the influence we would have in the world if we were a NATO member? If the Americans and EU nations considered us a sophisticated western power not the eastern bully we’re made out to be? We must make him the pariah, not Russia.”

  Pasternak stopped to watch the little dog sniff at a bush and lift its leg. He spoke without looking up. “But you’ve had trouble with the device the sleeper developed.”

  “Yes,” Subkov admitted. “We’re working to rectify the problem now.”

  “It’s not too late to call it off.”

  “We’ve committed ourselves, Yakov. Even if we don’t get the device operational, Leonid and his captain are the best sub hunters we have. They can do this without the device.”

  “And this mole hunt?”

  “Will come to nothing. We’ll accomplish our objectives long before Sergun’s investigation bears fruit, if ever.”

  “What do they have? This cook’s story? Is there anything to it?”

  Subkov had been afraid the conversation might take this turn. “It’s possible. A body was discovered at Temp air base on Kotelny today. No identification, and badly decomposed enough it may be difficult to lift fingerprints.”

  “And no one has been reported missing?”

  “No one is unaccounted for at the base or on Leonid’s ship.”

  The dog tugged at the leash. Pasternak began walking slowly again and spoke thoughtfully. “Which means someone has infiltrated either the base or the ship, taking the dead man’s place. You need to learn the man’s identity quickly, Mikhail. You know that Fyodor can’t help you. He can’t protect you.”

  Subkov nodded. His boss, Pedrovsky, was mere weeks away from retirement and his real power within GRU had faded years before. “I’m letting this go through normal investigative channels, but I think I can apply some pressure without alerting Sergun.”

  He walked with Pasternak in silence for a few steps. “It wasn’t us. This gives us another way to discredit FSB and the president by extension.”