Night Strike

by Michael W. Sherer

  “Hands up!” an MA shouted. “Get out of the helicopter! Now!”

  A glance showed Macready the six guns pointed at him, barrels glinting in the bright sun. Leaning forward to hide his movements, he pulled the circuit board from his pocket and quickly looked it over. On one edge, two round, glassy indentations caught his eye. Peering closer, he thought they looked like contact lenses with circuits printed on them.

  “Come out now!” the MA shouted. “This is your last warning! If you do not come out immediately, we will shoot!”

  Carefully, Macready pried one of the round circuits loose, then the other and stuck them under his tongue. He put the circuit board in his shirt pocket.

  With a sharp crack, the open canopy over his head splintered, the gunshot ringing in his ears at almost the same instant. Macready quickly pushed his hands skyward as far as they would go and slowly stood up.

  Chapter 56

  July 28—North Pacific Ocean

  Orlov paced the bridge, hands clasped behind his back, his scowl withering anyone who dared look at him directly. Marinesko slumped in the captain’s chair, running his fingers through his hair.

  He heaved a loud sigh as Orlov passed by. “I failed you, Leonid. I’m sorry, old friend.”

  Orlov swatted the air impatiently. “He saved us all, and now he has condemned us all. I don’t blame you, Valentin. We should have put him in leg irons while we had the chance, but we were both moved to leniency after what he did. I should have known better. He’s obviously not what he seems.”

  Marinesko sighed again. “I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him. He’s had special training. The question is, by whom?”

  The bridge door opened. Two MAs stepped inside, stiffened and saluted, followed by two more holding the chained Rostropovich between them. They stopped just in front of the other two and snapped a salute as well. Orlov stepped toe-to-toe with Rostropovich and eyed him silently for a moment. Rostropovich didn’t flinch.

  “Tell me, mladshiy lyeytyenant, if that’s what you are, why I shouldn’t have one of these guards take you out on a bridge wing, put a bullet in your brain and toss you overboard?”

  “You probably should,” Rostropovich replied calmly.

  “You killed Rostropovich back at Temp Airfield. Yes, the body was discovered. You took his place in order to learn our mission here and sabotage it. That still leaves the question of who you are. FSB? GRU? Did Sergun send you? Or Vova himself?”

  Surprise flickered in Rostropovich’s eyes, but he recovered quickly, and Orlov wondered if he’d been entirely off base.

  An operations specialist manning the communications station swiveled in his chair and waved for attention. “Sir, comm has a call for you.”

  “Not now, starshina,” Orlov snapped. “We’re a little busy here.”

  The petty officer swallowed hard but stood his ground. “It was preceded by an incoming telecommunications message marked ‘Immediate,’ sir.”

  The only message precedence level higher was Z, or “Flash,” which indicated initial enemy contact. Orlov swore under his breath and stepped over to the comm station. The specialist handed him a phone receiver.

  “Da?”

  “Admiral Orlov,” a cheerful voice said. “Admiral Jonathan Malloy, US Navy, here.”

  Startled, Orlov managed to maintain his composure, and replied in English. “What can I do for the United States Navy?”

  “Admiral, as commander of the US Pacific Fleet I called to personally welcome you to RIMPAC. It’s a real pleasure to have someone of your stature and reputation join us for these little exercises.”

  Orlov couldn’t believe his ears. The Americans knew he was here, but this admiral, if Orlov read him correctly, was giving him a chance to save face.

  “Thank you, Admiral Malloy. You’re too kind to an old sailor who’s past his prime.”

  “Not at all, sir. You’ve missed most of the fun, but I’m sure there’s a lot we can learn from each other in the few days we have left before closing ceremonies.”

  Orlov’s scowl vanished. Not only was Malloy giving him a chance to save face, but he might even have an opportunity to turn this fiasco of a mission into a positive PR move. If so, Putin might not ever discover the real reason he and Marinesko were there. He might enjoy a quiet retirement after all and not the firing squad.

  “I would like that very much, Admiral Malloy. If I might inquire, what’s your position?”

  “We’re on a direct heading to intercept you, just a few hours from now. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to meeting you.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure,” Orlov murmured.

  “Good. Then it’s a date. I’ll send a launch as soon as we rendezvous and we can celebrate with some twenty-year-old bourbon I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

  “Until then, Admiral.”

  “Oh, there’s just one other thing,” Malloy said quickly. “I believe you have a guest on board. Is that right?”

  Orlov turned and stared at the prisoner, light suddenly dawning in his brain. “Yes, we do. In fact, he’s here on the bridge. Would you like to speak with him?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Orlov held the handset out. “It seems this call is for you.”

  Again, surprise flashed across Rostropovich’s face and he shuffled across the deck in the chains. Since he couldn’t raise his hands, Orlov held the phone to the man’s ear as he leaned in.

  “Yes?” Rostropovich spoke in perfect, unaccented English. “Yes, sir… Thank you, sir… I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it… I’ll see you then, sir.”

  Rostropovich straightened and looked Orlov in the eye. “He wants to talk to you again, sir.”

  Orlov turned away, putting the phone to his own ear. “Yes, Admiral?”

  “One more favor, sir. I know you’re probably giving your guest rock star treatment there. But if you don’t mind, bring him along when I send the launch for you. He’s probably overstayed his welcome.”

  “As you wish.” Orlov placed the handset in its cradle and turned to Rostropovich. In a low voice, he said in English, “It seems I am in check. I concede this game to you. You agree?”

  Rostropovich nodded. “Since this round is over, seems only fair to introduce myself. Tryphon Macready, USN retired.”

  Orlov raised an eyebrow. “Retired? At such a young age, Mr. Macready?”

  “Call me Trip.” The man grinned at him. “I run a marine mammal rescue program in California.”

  “When you’re not infiltrating Russian naval vessels?”

  Orlov didn’t wait for an answer, turning to Marinesko instead. “Valentin, a word, please. In my quarters. Guards, bring the prisoner. We have things to discuss. And take those chains off him.”

  Chapter 57

  July 28—Seattle

  By the time NCIS won the pissing match over jurisdiction and transported the three of us over to Kitsap County, noon had come and gone. They didn’t put out a lunch spread for us, or even offer to get a candy bar or granola bar from the vending machine. Instead, they put Reyna and me in separate interview rooms and put Katya in the care of a young, female agent. Since Katya had been cheated out of pancakes I hoped that the special agent had the sense to take her into Silverdale or a mess hall on base and feed her something more substantial than a junk food from a machine.

  Luck of the draw in my case, the short straw went to Meade, the senior field agent who had grilled me the first time. It saved me the trouble of having to repeat a lot of stuff, but after coming clean about my involvement in dumping D’Amato’s body after he flat-lined in my car I had to work to regain his trust. I reminded him that I never actually lied to him during our first conversation. I just hadn’t told him everything. Over the course of the next six hours, I relived the previous three days at least a dozen times over. Some portions of them more than that as he looked for inconsistencies. He caught me in a few because I was so fucking tired that I had trouble keeping events
straight in my own mind.

  I should have asked for an attorney and just kept my mouth shut. Should have asked them to bring me my meds before I said another word. Had it been SPD doing the questioning I might have. But I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong. I had Reyna on my side, and I wanted to be done with the whole thing even if it meant being thrown in a brig for a lifetime or two. I had a feeling SPD was represented there anyway behind the video monitors in another room watching my performance. Maybe it was the way Meade paused occasionally before restating a question in a different way. Or how he sometimes pressed his hand to his ear and gave a barely perceptible nod a moment later. I sensed he was playing to an audience. And I would have bet that SPD and any other law enforcement agency with skin in the game wanted a front-row seat to our interrogations, not simply transcripts.

  Meade finally gave me a break, calling in a junior special agent to chaperone me to the men’s room and watch me take a piss. Meade handed me a water bottle when I was escorted back in, and excused himself. Suddenly, the only sound was the soft, hypnotic pirr from the air vent in the ceiling. I rested my head on my arms, imagining my own bed. But the combination of adrenaline and caffeine in my system refused to let sleep anywhere close. My eyes closed of their own accord, and though I tried to fill my head with thoughts of what for me was a normal life only days before, nightmarish images of the swath of death and destruction in my wake wouldn’t let go.

  Meade was gone a long time. When I heard the door open and lifted my head, I was surprised to see Reyna stepping inside. She slid into a chair next to me.

  “Hey,” she said softly. “How you holding up?”

  I took a deep breath, but couldn’t get any words out. I nodded instead.

  “I know just what you mean,” she said. “I feel pretty fried myself. But I’ve got some good news. They’re cutting you loose.”

  I wet my lips and swallowed hard. “You’re kidding.”

  “The small-caliber bullets that killed Special Agent O’Brien and D’Amato were distinctive. SPD matched them to Grigori’s gun, an FN Herstal Five-Seven. He should have used a throwaway. NCIS is no longer interested in you, and SPD says the rest looks like self-defense.”

  “What about you?”

  She shook her head. “I have to stick around a while. Brass is flying in from D.C.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “I don’t know. I disobeyed orders, interfered with an official investigation… Yeah, I guess I’m in trouble. But thanks to you, we prevented a major advance in underwater communications technology from falling into the wrong hands. And we defused a potentially dangerous international incident in the Pacific.” She told me what little she’d been able to find out about the Russian destroyer’s mission.

  “Macready?”

  She nodded. “Pretty much how I figured it. Somehow he managed to infiltrate the crew on board the destroyer. Commander of the Seventh Fleet intervened just as he was being detained. Can’t wait to hear his story.”

  “What do you think they’ll do to you?”

  She stared at the table for a moment. “I honestly don’t know. Either give me another medal or drum me out of the service.”

  “They wouldn’t do that. You’re too good, too valuable.”

  She shrugged.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” I said. “I mean I’m glad you came, and I sure as hell needed your help. I’d pretty much run out of rope when I called you. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “You did okay, civvy. You hung in there just fine.”

  We fell into an embarrassed silence, both of us too exhausted and emotionally raw to bridge the gulf between us.

  “So what happens now?” I said finally.

  “Go home, Blake. Get some sleep.”

  Disappointment sank to the pit of my stomach like a bag of lead shot. I didn’t have the energy or courage to tell her what I really wanted to know.

  “Where’s Katya?”

  “In a conference room reading a book. Just back from a tour of the base. They’re waiting on Child Protective Services to send someone out and get her settled with a foster family.”

  I jerked upright “No! Absolutely not.”

  “What do you mean? She has to go somewhere.”

  I stood and walked to the other side of the table, trying to find the right words. “I made a promise, Reyna. I promised a dying man I’d take care of that little girl. I’m not letting the system swallow her up after what’s happened to her. She lost both her parents and a surrogate granny in less than a week. If CPS takes her, she’s lost.”

  “What are you going to do with her, Blake? How are you going to take care of her?”

  “I’ll make it work. Peter and Chance can help babysit when I’m at work. I’m home most of the day, so I can be with her, take her to school, all that stuff.”

  “Don’t do this, Blake. You made a promise under duress. D’Amato held you at gunpoint. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “What the hell does that mean? I had a son. I know how to be a parent.”

  She rubbed the fingertips of one hand. “I… That wasn’t what I meant. She’s not Cole. Like you said, she’s a little girl who just lost everything. She’s going to need help, Blake.”

  I put my palms on the table and leaned over. She sat back in surprise.

  “Who better than someone who knows what it’s like,” I said through gritted teeth. “She is not going into the system.”

  She stared at me with wide eyes. “You’re serious. You really want to take this on, commit the next ten, twelve years of your life to raising a child.”

  “For her sake, yes, I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

  “What about us, Blake? Where does that leave us?”

  “You didn’t seem very concerned when I asked that question two minutes ago.”

  “You… I… What question?”

  “I said, ‘What happens now?’”

  “I didn’t think you meant… Oh, hell, never mind. You want this so badly, we might as well see if CPS will even listen to the idea.”

  “I think she needs me a hell of a lot more than you do right now.”

  Her eyes filled with tears as soon as the barb found its mark, and I instantly regretted letting them it out of my mouth.

  “Not fair,” she whispered. “How do you know what I need?”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” My face burned. “Tell you what, let’s put it to Katya and let her decide what she wants to do.”

  “She’s a child! She can’t make decisions like this.”

  “She ought to have some say in what happens to her.”

  She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I have to go. They want me back in the other interview room.”

  “Aw, don’t be mad. You, of all people, should know about honoring your word.”

  “You don’t even see it, do you? It’s the PTSD. It’s survivor’s guilt. You lost a son, Blake. And now you think this little girl will take his place?”

  The notion blindsided me and clamped a gag over my mouth.

  She rose and mumbled as she headed for the door. “You do what you have to.”

  I freed my tongue. “Wait. When will I see you?”

  She paused with her hand on the door. “I don’t know, Blake. I’m not sure of anything.”

  And then she was gone.

  I wandered out a minute later and found Katya in a conference room down the hall. She offered a shy smile when she saw me. I returned it and gave a nod to the special agent in the corner reading a magazine. Katya had spread a book on the table in front of her. The doll that had caused so much trouble sat in her lap.

  “Is it okay if I sit down?” I said.

  She shrugged and bobbed her head. I pulled out a chair across the table and eased into it.

  “What’s her name?”

  Katya glanced down. “That’s Isabelle.”

  From my pocket I took the now-w
orn photo D’Amato had given me and placed it on the table in front of her.

  “Katya, my name is Blake, and I’d like to tell you a story, if that’s all right.”

  Tipping her head to one side, she scrutinized my face and slowly closed her book.

  Chapter 58

  August 20—Seattle

  Shrill, high voices squealed with glee, the clamor amplified in the cavernous space of a former warehouse. Converted into a tennis center, this area of the building looked as if it had been zapped with a shrink ray, reducing the courts, racquets and most of the players to a size halfway between Lilliputian and Munchkin. The only thing that hadn’t shrunk were the balls being batted about with wild abandon. Actually larger than life and constructed of foam, the red and yellow orbs had no effect when an errant shot beaned someone accidentally other than to cause major cases of giggles. Giants walked among the little people, calling out instructions and encouragement, herding strays back where they belonged and making sure they used the equipment they wielded for its intended purpose and not to wage war.

  Katya was nearly lost among a group of kids her own age on one of the eight courts abuzz with activity. The group shifted so quickly as the coach ran the kids through drills that resembled games more than practice that Katya was hard to track. I watched from the sidelines along with several other parents. When I did catch glimpses of her, ponytail flying behind her, excited smile spreading on her face, she looked as happy as I’d seen her. Not only did she seem to be having fun, but she appeared to have a real aptitude for tennis.

  Marceil Whitney walked back to the courts from the reception area and spoke to one of the young women working with the kids. They nodded at one another and the coach turned back to the kids. Marceil spotted me and joined me.

  “Which one is she again?” she said, gaze roving over the clutter of kids.

  I pointed. “Over there. Blue top, pink shorts.”

  Marceil watched for a moment. “She’s good. She’s never played before?”

  “She says she hasn’t.”

  “Looks like she’s taking to it just fine. Keep bringing her and we’ll turn her into a tennis player before you know it. And she’ll have fun. That’s the important thing.”