Red Cell

by Richard Marcinko

  And then all sorts of other things started to fall into place. I realized, for example, that Grant had tried to have me killed during the war game. Not for his vicarious pleasure, as I’d previously believed, but because he thought I was dangerous—someone who could upset the plans he’d so carefully crafted. Why did he think it? Because he knew what I’d discovered at Narita.

  What had I learned there? That kimchis were engaged in a nuclear weapons smuggling program.

  But I also knew that somebody was stealing pieces of Tomahawk missiles out of the Naval Weapons Station at Seal Beach.

  I also knew that—wait a fucking second. How did I know the kimchis were trying to smuggle the crate out of Japan?

  Answer: I assumed it.

  What’s the First Rule of SpecWar? Remember, I told you you’d see that material again? Okay—the First Rule of SpecWar is: never assume.

  Why couldn’t they have been trying to smuggle the detonators into Japan? Or maybe, since they were switching crates, Grant was double-crossing Pinky and he was going to sell his own detonators to the North Koreans after they’d been “lost.” Except I blundered into the switch. I started drawing circles around names, places, and events. The connections were real enough. Anything was possible. Anything at all.

  Now I wanted to see the surveillance tapes from the weapons stowage area more than ever.

  The pickup at Seal Beach went smoothly. No impediments to our entry or our extraction. I stayed aboard the Malevolent Frog while Nasty, Cherry, and Half Pint did the sneak-and-peek, with Wynken and Blynken providing back-up. They were back within two hours, carrying the precious video cassettes.

  I pulled the boys aboard. While they’d been out, I’d been working the galley, and I had big pots of Sauerbraten, red cabbage, and boiled potatoes ready for them. While everybody chowed down, Mike and I went into the big main cabin and played the tapes on his VCR, using an adapter.

  Mostly, I ran at fast forward, because nothing was going on.

  But then—about one hundred thirty-four hours into the cassette—there was something.

  “Look at this.”

  We watched as eight people made their way into the locker. They hadn’t come the way we had, which meant they had a key to the place. Five were small—they looked oriental. It took me a minute, but I realized who they were—it was Team Matsuko from Grant Griffith’s war game. The others were Americans. The point man was Biker Jordan—I recognized him right away from the bowlegged way he walked. The man keeping track of the Japs and holding a suppressed HK submachine gun was Buckshot Brannigan.

  The last man in was a big, hatchet-faced son of a bitch who carried his HK in the crook of his arm and wore his hair in two flat braids. I knew him but didn’t say anything. I wondered how good Mike’s memory was.

  “Geezus.” Mike’s jaw dropped about a foot. “I know that big guy—it’s—it’s—Manny Tanto, the fucking Jap Indian from Tri Ton who skinned the VC alive.”

  Give the man ten points. I guess some things you never forget.

  Buckshot had a small knapsack slung over his shoulder. Manny Tanto carried a satchel. Biker Jordan had a canvas tool bag. Biker opened his tool bag, extracted a knife, and with Manny’s help, began to open one of the crates, moving carefully so as not to damage the security seals. When he got it open, the Japs surrounded it like medical examiners at an autopsy. Carefully, they pointed at the Tomahawk innards, then engaged in an animated discussion with Buckshot.

  From the body language, Buckshot seemed to be saying that they’d have to take bits and pieces. The Japs kept shaking their heads—they pointed at the crates. They wanted the whole enchilada.

  When they finished talking, Manny sealed the crate, and the group made its way out, the head Jap still gesticulating in Buckshot’s direction. I scanned the rest of the tape, but there was no activity.

  “Nasty?” I shouted toward the galley.

  He appeared, his plate piled high. “Yeah, Skipper?”

  “They didn’t take anything, huh?”

  “Seems that way. All the monitors are where we left ’em.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “No prob, boss.”

  That’s what he thought.

  By now Pinky had to be going crazy. He hadn’t heard from me since I’d left the sub. Well, it was time to tantalize him a little bit. So about midnight I phoned the duty captain at the National Command Center and had a message relayed to him. I reported we were back in CONUS—that’s the CONtinental United States to you cake-eaters—picking up supplies and devices in the Los Angeles region, and that we’d be disposing of excess ordnance we had cached on our way west to the Far East. I told the duty officer to pass the word that we’d be home soon, traveling commercial nonstop to Dulles, and we’d report to OP-06 as soon as we landed.

  Depending on the duty captain’s schedule, the implicit urgency of the message, or his whim, my report would either be called immediately to Pinky in quarters or would be hand-carried to his administrative assistant sometime the following morning. I’d phrased things so as not to ring any warning bells—that way, the message would meander through a bureaucratic maze of in/hold baskets. Starting with the AA, it would move to the admin secretary, thence on to the staff aide, from there to one of Pinky’s executive assistants, then finally to the bottom of some pile in Pinky’s office. This was one time the system was going to work in my favor.

  Because I was hoping to be landing at Dulles about the time Pinky’d get around to it.

  Meanwhile, I started playing Sherlock. Back at Mike’s office I pulled out the L.A. phone books. I found Matsuko Machine listed in the West L.A. book, on the discreetly named Avenue of the Stars in Century City. Then I checked all the other usual suspects.

  Centurions International, Buckshot Brannigan’s security company, had an office in the same building as Matsuko. Gee, what a coincidence.

  And guess what? Jones-Hamilton, the defense contractor that made the detonators I’d discovered at Narita, had an office in the very same building that housed Matsuko and Centurions International. Gosh and golly, Captain Midnight!

  Grant Griffith had an office there, too. I called the number next to his name.

  “Mr. Griffith’s line.”

  Time to play solly, wrong number. “Oh—sorry, I thought I was calling Jones-Hamilton.”

  “You are—Mr. Griffith maintains an office here.”

  Gee whiz. “Is he in?”

  “No, sir, but may I take a message?”

  “I’ll try him in Washington. Thanks.”

  Next, I called Centurions. “May I speak to Mr. Brannigan, please?”

  “He’s in conference. Who may I say is calling?”

  “Snerd. Herman Snerd. From Petaluma. About Mr. Brannigan’s insurance. I’ll call him at home. No need to leave a message.”

  I rang off. Mike and I sat across his desk from each other and talked things over. It seemed to me that I had two choices. I could go back to Washington and deal with Pinky—confront him with the evidence I had and see what he’d do, or I could stay here and deal with the problem at hand—stolen tactical nuclear warheads, detonators, and guidance systems. Either way, I was going to be in trouble.

  On the one hand, if I returned to D.C., I was going to be at a real disadvantage. If Pinky was dirty, if he was a part of this thing, he could sink me any number of ways because I was operating in his area of operations—the Pentagon—where he had a lot more clout and knew a lot more people than I did.

  On the other hand, if I stayed in L. A. and staged a raid on the Jones-Hamilton offices to gather information that would sink Grant Griffith, I’d be breaking into a civilian facility—a court-martial offense under military law. Further, when I broke and entered, I’d be committing a felony under civilian law. And if I did get inside, there was no guarantee I’d find anything.

  But on the third hand, if there was any real evidence about Griffith’s involvement with Matsuko, or with the weapons smuggling operation, it would
probably be found in his office—or Buckshot’s. Besides, I rationalized, my ass was grass no matter what I did. Pinky would see to that. So I’d do what I do best when confronted with a tactical dilemma—I’d attack.

  First priority was intelligence. You get intel through recon. I gave the job to Cherry, Duck Foot, and Pick. They drove to Century City, parked, and meandered through the lobby, making notes about the location of passenger and service elevators, emergency exits, fire stairways, and janitorial closets. They got onto the roof and discovered a cable rig for outside window-washing that could be used for emergency egress if necessary. I sent Nasty in a separate car with a portable scanner to detect ultrahigh-frequency transmissions that are common to all electrical cipher locks. That way we could break in without the telltale graphite dust. Once he discovered which frequency they used on the locks, we’d use a Motorola MX-360 radio, which would lock onto the cipher frequency and print out the sequence for us.

  Half Pint was detailed to find a countersniper position in an adjacent building, just in case things really got out of hand. We didn’t have the 50-BMG-caliber McMillan sniper’s rifle I would have wanted, but Half Pint was deadly at five hundred yards with an HK-93 and a twelve-power scope—and Doc Tremblay had just happened to send us four HKs, one sniper’s scope, and a bunch of handloaded .223 that was sniper-accurate out to 550 yards. I sent HP and his HK to the Beverly Hills Gun Club, an outdoor range on the site of the old Twentieth Century-Fox Studios, to zero the rifle in. Finally, Mike and I, dressed in suits, would reconnoiter the Jones-Hamilton offices.

  I wasn’t sanguine about this op. If Buckshot was as sharp as he used to be—and there was no reason to suppose he wasn’t—he’d know I’d recon the area before I did anything, so he’d probably have watchers posted all over the high-rise where he and Grant Griffith had their offices. Sure, I could recognize Weasel Walker or Sally Stallion, but Buckshot wouldn’t use them—he’d use retired L.A. cops or former FBI and Secret Service agents, the pool from which most security companies draw their talent.

  Thinking logically, both Buckshot and the former SECDEF would probably figure that their L.A. offices were my third-choice target—after The Hustings and their Washington headquarters. It was true, too. I would have liked to have hit Grant’s East Coast offices. But I hadn’t had the opportunity—Pinky had kept me otherwise engaged.

  But Buckshot would also know that target priorities change. Besides, Buckshot and his top lieutenants were here—not in D.C. They had to be because they were about to steal a bunch of missiles from Seal Beach.

  So the odds were definitely not in Dickie’s favor. That was an understatement. The odds sucked, the timing was terrible, and the chances of success ran from slim to none.

  So what? I didn’t have to like it—I just had to do it.

  *

  The Jones-Hamilton offices took up 15,750 square feet of the thirty-seventh floor of the Century Park Towers East, a forty-one-story high-rise that looked like it was the role model for the skyscraper in the movie Die Hard. Centurions International leased 5,000 square feet on the twenty-fourth floor, while Matsuko rented the entire twenty-second floor—26,500 square feet, bigger than a dozen million-dollar apartments in Tokyo.

  Mike and I cruised the perimeter of the building in his Porsche, and the truth of the matter is that I was impressed. I look at things differently from the way you do. When I see a building, I try to think of the ways in which I could bring it tumbling down. This one would be hard. It was sturdy—built to withstand the earthquakes to which southern California is prone—and it was easily evacuated. There were two subterranean garages, each with eight lanes of ingress and egress. One emptied onto Avenue of the Stars, the other you got to by way of Santa Monica Boulevard.

  It was imposing in a sci-fi sort of way. The facade was a mélange of shiny, black marble, polished ministerial-gray granite, and dull slate. The lobby, an atrium five stories high filled with forty-foot trees, two waterfalls, and escalator-hills alive with the Sound of Muzak, was about the size of a football field. The first three floors of the atrium were filled with dozens of fashionable boutiques, mini-cinemas, and the sorts of espresso bars and tofu takeout in vogue with the Armani-clad, designer-water-and-smoked-trout crowd that inhabited the building.

  That was the front of the house. Backstage, it was different. All pipes and electrical conduits and gray paint over the concrete. High-rises are very much like hotels or ocean liners—an entire support network is hidden behind the gilded facade. And most of the residents never notice that it’s there. They only know it if their trash isn’t picked up or their lights go out or the air-conditioning screws up. And the people—the janitors, electricians, security guards, trash handlers, and maintenance techs—they’re invisible. That’s what made our job so much easier.

  There were five service elevators. Duck Foot rode them all, dressed in a Federal Express uniform he borrowed from somewhere, and dragging a hand cart filled with FedEx boxes and envelopes. I like that boy. Imagination is what makes the difference between a good SEAL and a great SEAL. Cherry, carrying an L.A. Power & Light ID, worked his way into the electrical room and flagged the most important circuits—like the ones to the Jones-Hamilton, Matsuko, and Centurions International offices. Then he dropped by the phone room and placed half a dozen passive monitors where they’d do some good.

  Pick, dressed in the ubiquitous blue overalls that render the wearer invisible to anyone in a suit and tie, worked his way through the building’s air-conditioning and vent system. There were literally miles of conduit-lined passageways, accessible behind panels and locked shaftway doors, and Pick examined many of them. Like Theseus making his way through Minos’ labyrinth, he left subtle signs behind so he—and the rest of my argonauts—could find his way.

  After an hour and a half split between the car and a walk-through of two nearby shopping malls, curiosity got the better of me. Mike and I parked in the big garage off Santa Monica Boulevard, took the elevator to the lobby, and wandered around to see if anybody paid special notice to us. We seemed to attract no attention. So, after ten minutes, we rode up to the thirty-seventh floor and got off.

  Jones-Hamilton shared the floor with a huge brokerage office. The defense contractor’s offices lay to the left as you got off the elevators, behind massive French walnut doors. Alongside the door was a magnetic card lock. Instead of a cipher lock, you opened the door by running what looked like a credit card through the slot. The magnetic tape told the electronic lock to open. So much for Nasty and his radio monitor.

  Mike punched the down button just as the door opened and two suits marched in lockstep unison out of the Jones-Hamilton offices. They were former straight-leg Army O-6s—colonels, from the broomstick-up-the-ass look of them. They wore matching West Point rings, cheap brown suits, and Hush Puppies. They carried black Samsonite attaché cases festooned with decals picked up at arms shows and expositions, and luggage tags that bore the Jones-Hamilton logo.

  We all waited in silence. They looked me up and down. My beard was coming in nicely now, and my hair was shoulder length. I had it tied in a short pigtail. I wore black canvas slacks, loafers with no socks, a polo shirt, and my brown leather bomber jacket. The suits liked none of it—you could see it on their faces. They wrinkled their noses as if I hadn’t bathed. Mike and I smiled and nodded at them. They nodded back somberly, and when the doors opened, they gestured that we should precede them into the elevator.

  We rode down in silence—although I bit my tongue so hard I drew blood. But I saw no need to send up any flares. Too much was at stake. The elevator made five stops. By the time it hit Atrium Level Two it was jam-packed, everybody standing silently, staring at the digital floor-indicator and listening to the Muzak version of “’Round Midnight.”

  Suddenly, Mike pointed toward the door and started forward. We elbowed our way through the crowd, pushing and mumbling, “Excuse me, excuse me, pardon me, sorry,” as we shimmied our way out.

  The doors
closed behind us. I turned to Mike. “How come you wanted to get off? We could have ridden straight to the garage on that elevator.”

  Mike didn’t say anything. He led me through a series of stores and boutiques, window-shopping and chatting with salespeople as we went, then took the escalator down to the lobby. He waited as I noted the location of the security TV cameras, glanced behind the desk where the building’s rent-a-cops did their monitoring, and peered at the elevator control panel. Then he beckoned me to follow. We descended to the third parking level where Mike found his Porsche and climbed in.

  “What was all that about?”

  Mike said nothing. He simply put his index finger in front of his lips and winked at me.

  Then, as we drove out onto Santa Monica Boulevard, he flipped something into my lap.

  I looked. It was a man’s wallet.

  Mike turned the stereo system on, and 120 watts of fifties bebop filled the interior of the car at about eighty decibels, all atonal piano, contrapuntal trumpet and sax exchanging riffs, and explosive drumming. He slammed the padded leather steering wheel in time with the music and grinned at me. “You might need what’s inside,” he said.

  I extracted the embossed magnetic card that read JONES-HAMILTON.

  A happy smile crossed my face. “God bless you, my nefarious son.”

  “The Muzak made me do it.”

  “Huh?” I was confused.

  “In the elevator. I was influenced by Felonious Monk.”

  Chapter 17

  BY THE EVENING AND THE MORNING OF THE THIRD DAY, WE’D gathered enough information to begin making a plan. I decided to hit both Centurions and Jones-Hamilton. It was risky. I’d be dividing my force, unable to provide either squad any significant backup other than Half Pint’s sniping position. But I came to realize that we had to see Buckshot’s files as well as Griffith’s. After all, it was Buckshot, Manny Tanto, and Biker Jordan who’d gotten the Japs from Matsuko into Seal Beach, and I wanted to learn what their plans were for getting the nukes out of the country. So my new guys were going to get their wish—they’d be the cannon fodder going to Centurions, led by Cherry and Pick, while Nasty, Duck Foot, and I hit Jones-Hamilton.