“Fewer ‘eyes and ears’?” Grant asked, now more concerned than ever. If the President didn’t feel comfortable talking in the White House, something very “heavy” must be going down.
“Exactly,” Carr responded. “What we’re about to discuss is top secret.”
“Excuse me, sir, but before you begin, will we be able to bring in the rest of the Team, or will only Joe and I be involved?”
“Why don’t I tell you first, then you decide what’s best.”
“Very well, sir.”
Carr’s worry was evident. “First let me say that there are only two other people who are aware that I’m talking with you tonight. NSA General Prescott and SECDEF Daniels.”
He let out a breath, then started rocking. “Gentlemen, we are confident there’s a traitor within the DoD.”
Grant and Adler gave each other a quick look. How many times during their Navy careers did they wonder if their involvement in finding and capturing a traitor--or foreign mole--would be their last time? But it was happening again, this time on U.S. soil.
Carr continued. “What we are dealing with has to do with a laser guided weapon developed by the Navy.” He held up a hand, palm facing the two men. “Now I know what you’re thinking. Laser guided weapons aren’t anything new. And you’d be correct. They’ve been around for years. Several countries already have them, even Russia. But this particular weapon is special.” He reached for a folder on the coffee table, stamped with red letters TOP SECRET, then handed the folder to Grant. “Take a look at those photos and drawings.”
Adler scooted closer to Grant as Grant opened the folder. The photograph showed a weapon, similar to a rifle, slightly more compact, but unlike any rifle either one of them had ever seen.
As they examined the black and white photos, Carr explained, “That’s a laser guided rifle, completely computerized.”
“Computerized?” Grant asked with wrinkled brow.
“That’s right. The developers were able to use the same computer technology designed for the Apollo spacecraft. There’s a lot in that report,” he pointed toward the folder, “that I don’t completely understand. But think about it. A rifle that can be programmed, controlled by computer, has its own GPS. Just set it and forget it--or so I’ve been told.” He gave a half smile, then added, “If you read further into that report, you’ll see there’s the possibility the design could be altered into almost any size for mounting on ships, planes, or any military vehicle.”
“This is fantastic,” Adler said, holding two of the photos. “Mike would eat dirt for one of these,” he laughed quietly.
“Mike?” Carr asked.
“Uh, yes, Mr. President,” Adler answered. “Mike Novak is the Team’s sniper.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Grant processed the information, then asked, “Mr. President, when was the prototype completed?”
“Two prototypes, Grant, and that was nearly a year ago. After successful testing, a limited number went into production. The factory was to begin production on another order in about a month.”
And that’s why we’re here, Grant thought. “Has something happened to those production models?”
“Those first ten were stolen.”
“Wow,” Adler said under his breath.
Grant asked, “When?”
“Last night, around midnight.”
“Anything else to go on, Mr. President? I mean, did it happen at the manufacturing plant or during transport?”
“During transport to Indian Head. As SOP, they were secured in special crates, five to a crate. The crates were loaded on a military truck, with a driver, a guard up front, and two riding with the crates. Those guards were well armed.
“About twenty miles from the base, along a deserted stretch of Palmer Road, the truck was attacked. The driver and guards were killed.”
“Jesus,” Grant said quietly. “Any indication how they made off with the weapons?”
“NIS (Naval Investigative Service) hasn’t come up with anything yet. I’ve been told there wasn’t any evidence indicating the crates were opened. No wood remnants, no screws, nothing. Whoever took them, took them completely intact.”
“I’m assuming, Mr. President, that whoever was in charge has been questioned?”
“Correct. At the plant and Indian Head.” Carr took the lid off the ice bucket, used tongs to put ice into a tall glass, then started pouring water. “You sure I can’t get you something?” The two men declined.
Carr swallowed some water. “Not everyone’s been questioned, though. I’m sure NIS will continue interviewing and weeding out individuals who may have had more knowledge of the weapon design. There isn’t much I can do to slow down the investigation without causing suspicion. Now, I know you boys worked for Admiral Torrinson at NIS not long ago, so you should know how those folks operate.”
“Yes, sir.” Grant’s eyes narrowed as he began interpreting Carr’s statement. “Mr. President, I’m getting the impression you want us to ‘fly under the radar’ on this one.”
“You’re right, Grant. You’ll be conducting a, shall we say, private investigation. I don’t want any departments to think I’m stepping on toes, but I also don’t want that many involved at this point. We are sure of one traitor, but who’s to say there aren’t more involved, and from possibly different departments.” Carr sipped on some water. “So, have you decided if you’ll need your whole Team?”
“I think it’ll be best, Mr. President. And I’d like to bring in Agent Mullins. As in the last operation, Scott will have responsibility for lining up refueling, transportation needs, and equipment that might be necessary. He’s an invaluable asset to the Team, sir.”
Carr rolled the glass between his palms. “Understand, and you ask for anything you deem necessary.” He put the glass on the coffee table. “I know you’d like your man to get familiar with one of those, but I don’t know if there’ll be time for training.”
“Mike’s a smart guy, Mr. President. With your approval, I could send him to Indian Head for a day of training while we begin our investigation.”
“I’ll start the ball rolling tonight. Have him go directly to Indian Head in the morning. He’ll report to Captain Ramsay.” Carr stood, with Grant and Adler immediately following. The meeting was just about over.
“Mr. President, who should I contact with any further questions or if I have updates?” Grant asked.
“Have Agent Mullins contact me directly. A call from the State Department will less likely be questioned.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Anything else, Grant?”
“No, sir. Joe and I will start immediately when we meet the Team.”
“Speaking of which. . . you should probably give one of your men a call from here. The staff sergeant will drive you back to the Memorial.” Carr pointed to a door. “There’s a phone in my office.”
Five minutes later Grant joined Carr and Adler near the front door.
Adler had his hand on the knob, when the Secret Service agent opened it, then stepped aside.
“Grant, Joe,” Carr said, “this isn’t the first time the country will be depending on you.”
Grant returned Carr’s firm handshake. “We’ll do our very best, Mr. President, and as quickly as possible.”
Chapter 6
Palmer Road
Near the accident scene
Tuesday - Day 2
0030 Hours
Two Chevy SUVs drove along Palmer Road, slowing down as they approached where the attack occurred. Grant had the entire Team with him, knowing he’d need every pair of eyes to search for clues, especially in the dark. They couldn’t hold off and wait until daylight. Time was of the essence.
As soon as the SUVs stopped, the seven men jumped out. Stalley and Diaz grabbed a couple of emergency flares, setting them in front and behind the vehicles.
Grant turned on a flashlight, the beam settling on an area just off the shoulder. “Looks like that’s where the
truck ended up,” he commented, before turning toward his men. “I don’t know what the hell we’re looking for, but there’s gotta be something that’ll give us a clue on who pulled this off and maybe how. Spread out.” With flashlight beams leading their way, the men began scouring the area.
Novak moved the light back and forth along blacktop. “Anybody find any casings?!”
Six responses came back: “Negative!”
“NIS probably confiscated all the physical evidence they could carry,” Grant commented.
“Looks like this was where NIS may have ‘planted’ at least one flare!” Slade shouted as he continued walking along the asphalt.
Suddenly, a set of high beams came around a curve. Slade swung his flashlight back and forth, aiming it low. The distinctive staccato sound of “jake brakes” warned them a big rig was approaching. The truck slowed, then rolled to a stop. The driver leaned his head out the window. “Everything okay here?!”
Slade walked closer to the cab. “Yeah. Everything’s under control. Thanks.”
The trucker shifted into gear, but kept looking in his large, side view mirror. Slade stood in the middle of the road, watching until lights were no longer visible. “Hey, boss, think that guy might call the cops?”
“Can’t worry about him, Ken.”
“Skipper!” Adler called. “Take a look at this!”
Grant jogged to where Adler was standing, just along the shoulder, about twenty yards away from where the truck ended up in the ditch. “Whatcha got, Joe?” he asked, with his eyes following the flashlight beam toward trees.
Adler moved the light in a circle on the ground. “See that?” Without waiting for Grant to answer, he directed the light up toward the top of the trees, then made an arc with it until it pointed to the opposite side.
“Yeah, but I still . . . Oh, shit!” Grant finally realized they were looking at debris from pine trees--pine needles, pine cones, small branches, most scattered along both sides of the road. But mounds of debris, dirt and small stones indicated NIS probably swept the road clean.
“Right, Skipper! A chopper!” Adler said, continuing to move the light.
“Good work, ‘Sherlock’!” Grant said, slapping Adler’s shoulder. “Now, where’d they go?”
“Beats the shit out of me!”
“Boss!” Stalley yelled. “Found something over here!”
As Grant approached, Stalley got down on a knee, pointing to a dark spot on the asphalt. “I wouldn’t swear to it, but I’m bettin’ that’s blood.”
Grant aimed his flashlight beam on the spot, then he turned toward the ditch. “I doubt the guards would’ve left their vehicle, Doc. You’re thinking one of the attackers took a bullet, right?”
“Yes, sir. I sure do,” Stalley answered as he stood.
“You wouldn’t know where they went, would you?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“That’s okay, Doc. You’re not the only one.” Grant turned and started following the broken white centerline. Just as he was about to give up, his flashlight beam landed on something. He knelt on a knee, then his eyes followed the light further down the line about eight feet away. “Joe!”
Adler came rushing across the road. “What’d you find?”
“What do these look like to you?” Grant aimed the light.
“Black scrape marks?”
Grant stood and punched Adler’s shoulder, grinning as he said, “You know damn well what they are. You were right. A chopper.” The two black marks were left by the skids of the Huey.
It wasn’t likely they’d find any more evidence. Grant at least had something to go on--a chopper was definitely part of the attack. “Hey, guys! Let’s get outta here and head back to ‘Eagle 8.’”
*
Eagle 8
Virginia
0345 Hours
Three empty pizza boxes, two nearly empty buckets of fried chicken, an empty bag of chocolate chip cookies, bottles of beer and soda were scattered on top of the kitchen counter. A fresh pot of coffee percolated near the stove, with the smell of the strong brew drifting throughout the room.
National news was being broadcast on NBC, but sounds from the TV faded into the background. With rumpled clothes, unshaven, in need of showers, Team A.T. sat at the dining room table, each man in his own thoughts, trying to put together a means for locating the traitor--and missing weapons. Newspapers from the past two days were strewn around the table and floor.
Slade and Diaz each had a paper open, scanning every page, looking at articles, pictures.
Grant rocked his chair back and forth, balancing on the two back legs, when he heard the door at the end of the hallway close. “Hey, Matt!”
Garrett took off his coat as he came toward the living room. “Sorry I’m late. Rough weather coming across country.”
“No problem. Get yourself something to eat and drink then join the party.”
Garrett draped his coat on the back of the couch, then went to the kitchen. He poured a cup of coffee, then took a chicken leg from the bucket.
Adler was slouched in the chair, with his legs stretched out in front of him, his fingers locked behind his head. “Time for a break,” he said, as he got up. “I’m gonna get some coffee.” As he walked by the bucket of chicken, he snatched a wing. While he ate, he waited for the second pot of coffee to finish perking. Tossing the chicken bones in the trash, he licked his fingers, then poured the steaming black brew into his cup. “Anybody want a refill?” he said loudly, holding up the pot. Three hands went up. He unplugged the pot and carried it to the table.
Grant pushed his chair back and stood, while rubbing his fingers in small circles on his temples. The little information they had was getting them nowhere fast.
Jamming his hands into his back pockets, he started walking around the table. Four dead men because of two crates. How many more are gonna die? What the fuck are we missing?
“Hey, boss?”
“Yeah, Doc?”
“You feelin’ okay?”
“Just frustrated and angry as all hell, Doc. Thinking about those four guards who probably didn’t have a chance.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean,” Stalley responded, running his fingers through his dark blond hair. He tried changing the subject, if only briefly. “How about some cold chicken? LT’s left a few pieces,” he laughed, tilting his head toward Adler.
“Yeah, sure. Sounds, good.” Grant watched the youngest team member walking toward the kitchen. The two of them had a bond of sorts, in part because Stalley helped save his life, but as a corpsman, Stalley reminded Grant of his father, Mike Stevens, HMCS, killed in Korea. (Hospital Corpsman, Senior Chief)
Words from the TV newscaster finally started registering with Grant: “. . . have brought more troops into Afghanistan.” He swung around, picked up the remote, and turned up the sound.
With his arms folded tightly across his chest, he began taking in every word being reported. The news reporter reviewed events that occurred three months prior on December 27:
“Seven hundred Soviet troops landed in Afghanistan disguised as Afghan military. Within these troops were KGB and GRU special forces officers from the Alpha and Zenith Groups, who took control of major governmental, military and media buildings in Kabul. Simultaneously, other objectives were occupied. The operation was fully completed by the following morning. But the overthrow of the old government seems to be causing more opposition to the Soviets being in Afghanistan.”
Chairs scraped across the wood floor as Novak and James got up. They walked toward the TV and stood next to Grant, listening to the report, and watching the video being shown.
The news reporter continued: “Soviet troops are finding themselves drawn into guerilla warfare, fighting against urban uprisings, tribal armies, and sometimes against mutinying Afghan Army units. Soviet-led Afghan forces are fighting against multi-national insurgent groups, the Mujahideen.”
The more Grant heard, the more he found himself putting s
mall pieces together. “Sonofabitch!”
“What’s happening, Skipper?” Adler shouted from across the room.
But before Grant responded, Slade called, “Boss, you need to read this!” He folded the paper in half and laid it down. As Grant got to the table, Slade pointed to an article.
Grant read the caption: Wreckage Discovered Off Coast.
“Jesus Christ!” he said under his breath.
The article stated the previous night an explosion had been seen off the Delaware coast. The following morning debris had been spotted by the Coast Guard but bodies had yet to be found. Examination of debris indicated it was a Huey. Efforts to find the registered owner had so far failed. The investigation was still underway.
“Well, boss, you think the weapons went down with the chopper?” Slade asked, rubbing a hand briskly over his shiny, bald head.
“What I think, Ken, is somebody’s tying up loose ends.”
Adler handed him a cup of coffee. “And you know this to be how? That gut of yours?”
Grant remained quiet, rolling around different scenarios, coming up with two possibilities, neither of which gave him a “warm and fuzzy.”
“Well?” Adler asked.
“Gotta call Scott,” Grant said, turning to go to the phone, acting as if he didn’t even hear Adler.
“Hold it!” Adler said, grabbing his arm. “No secrets allowed!”
Grant put his head down, slowly shaking it. When he raised it, seven pairs of eyes were staring at him, waiting for an explanation. “If I’m correct, our mission will encompass more than just tracking down a traitor.” He shifted his eyes to Adler, who returned a look through narrowing blue eyes.
“Are you saying we’ve got another mole on our hands?!”
“There’s more going on here than just meets the eye. Somebody sold those weapons to somebody else who plans on using them, or at least use the technology.” He tilted his head toward the TV. “And Afghanistan seems the perfect place.” Setting his eyes on his men, he finally said, “Look, why don’t you all get some shut-eye. We’ve got work to do tomorrow. DJ and Frank, plan on setting up surveillance at the Russian Embassy.”
Code Name Antares Page 4