by David Perry
“Yes.”
“What did I tell you?”
“To stop living in the past.”
“I said, ‘If you live in the past it will kill you.’ That’s what I said. ‘Don’t leave me again!’ But you have. You have left me up here!” Chrissie pointed to her temple. “I can’t live this way. I thought your memories of that day, the day of the christening at the shipyard, were haunting you. But it’s not that, is it? It’s something else.”
Jason swallowed hard. He could not look at her.
“Tell me about Headlights.”
Jason swallowed again, trying to temper the bob of his Adam’s apple and contain the rising guilt.
“Headlights?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Chrissie …”
“Headlights … you know the strip joint on Warwick Boulevard up by Fort Eustis? Tell me about it.”
Oh shit! She knows!
Jason shook his head. Chrissie bolted upright, stepping closer with a perfectly manicured, polished fingernail pointed at his nose. He looked away and sighed.
“Well?”
Jason turned his back on her and ran his hand through his hair.
Chrissie persisted. “Tell me why you drive up to Headlights and park on the street and sit there waiting.”
Shit!
“How do you know about that?”
Oleg Gundersen, the crusty captain of the Norwegian rust-bucket, Thor, chomped hard on the unlit, saliva-coated stump of a CAO Italia cigar that had gone out ten minutes ago. The appointed moment, the moment Gundersen had been highly anticipating and deeply dreading for the last week, was hours away. Less than four to be exact. His nervousness edged higher as the minutes ticked down.
He gulped hard. A healthy dose of cold, tobacco-laden saliva slipped down his throat. Gundersen scratched the five-day scrabble of beard.
This was the most dangerous part of the trip!
Gundersen had done his homework on the Tidewater area and the lower Chesapeake Bay prior to departing with his lethal cargo. He had navigated the ship through the Mediterranean Sea and the Strait of Gibraltar and across the Atlantic to this point without incident.
But now they were entering the Kraken’s den. Except this creature did not reside in the cold Norwegian Sea, waiting to drag ships to the murky depths with its long, octopus-like tentacles, as in the folklore of his childhood. The creature lurking in or about these waters was not an undersea monster. The strength and tenacity of the American forces stationed in the area surrounded his ship. They were more lethal than any collection of military force in the world.
That fact pressed on him with a leaden discomfort.
Dritt!!
The Elizabeth River and Chesapeake Bay housed a formidable military presence. The Norfolk Naval Base, the largest in the world, yawned a few miles to the southwest with detachments of marines. Little Creek could helicopter a nasty contingent of Navy Seals to his location in minutes. The coast guard patrolled these waters from locations in Elizabeth City, North Carolina, and Yorktown, Virginia. With the current state of affairs in the world, they were always on alert and waiting for any sign of trouble.
Despite his growing anxiety, he knew that if he stayed calm, his payday was growing closer. He would be well compensated once the pair of deliveries were completed. The last thing he needed or wanted to do was poke the American beast into a reaction.
“Have you entered the coordinates?” he asked his first mate.
“Aye, captain.”
“Set our course. All ahead two-thirds.”
He had navigated the rusting vessel past the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel into the southern tip of the bay. His official port of call was the Virginia International Terminal. Gundersen stepped out of the bridge onto the small deck and the rail, allowing the cool air to dry his sweating skin.
The Thor’s bridge, located astern, provided him with a panoramic view of the darkened, cloud-filled skies and the hold. Hundreds of metal containers, filled with clothes, shoes, and other retail items from Europe, were stacked for maximum effect in the hold. All save one. The lone exception held a single panel truck. Gundersen would deliver that truck himself. He jangled the keys in his pocket. The placement of the containers in the hold had been carefully planned, leaving an open valley in the cargo area. Until an hour ago the valley was covered with a massive black tarp.
That cover had been peeled back a few minutes earlier, exposing what lay beneath.
The brisk stream of salty air buffeted his curly locks, exposed beneath his faded kommander’s cap. He flicked what was left of the cigar toward the smooth, dark waters of the Chesapeake. The sight of the once hidden contents renewed his doubts about what he’d agreed to do.
Two black Zodiacs outfitted with massive outboard engines and five ten-gallon cans of reserve fuel rested side by side. Inside each water craft, a five-man team relaxed as they waited for h-hour. Many of the faces covered with camouflage paint were at rest, eyes closed, waiting. Their helmets, sporting night-vision goggles, lay on the mercenaries chests like empty skulls. A fully loaded pack provided each man with a coarse pillow.
Gundersen had been paid his down payment by a mysterious intermediary through a Swiss account. He’d asked many questions about the mission and received no answers. He needed the money. When the emissary said, “No problem we’ll find someone else. And, by the way, you’ll never find another decent cargo for your vessel,” Gundersen relented.
“Don’t worry, Oleg,” the man said. “It’s a simple delivery. Drop off the cargo and you are done. I will send you the coordinates.”
The military nature of their gear sent a chill down his spine. Under the wash of the few flood lights mounted on the ship and before the camo paint had been applied, the captain noticed the swarthy complexion of the men in the boats. They looked to be of Middle Eastern descent. That fact made the bile in his gut, which swirled with acidic tobacco juice, bubble into a volcanic mixture.
An hour before, he’d approached the leader of the mission, trying to extract a morsel of information.
“I will turn this ship around if you do not tell me what is going to happen,” he threatened.
The leader pulled him aside out of earshot of his soldiers.
“If you fail to deliver us to the designated drop point and deliver the truck at the terminals, you will not only not be paid, I will shoot you and your crew myself.”
Gundersen had trudged back to the bridge, nervous and muttering. He now prayed that he would not see the results of their work on the evening news. Americans could be ruthless about terrorist attacks on their own soil.
The captain checked his watch. The first drop would happen soon. He willed the time to pass faster. He never should have agreed to this. He wanted to be done with all of it.
“Vince, I want the entire Service placed on full alert,” Giles Doyle, director of the Secret Service, commanded. I want one man from each of the field offices west of the Mississippi to send an agent to Washington. The president has ordered all agencies to prepare for an attack. All leaves are cancelled until further notice,”
“The NSC meeting?” Vince Gagliano replied.
Gagliano peered through the windows of the ninth-floor office of his boss out onto H Street and the Grant Hyatt Washington across the way. The sun had disappeared hours ago. Both men had logged sixteen hours in the last twenty-four. That was a common occurrence in the last eighteen months. Gagliano’s mind raced through recent history.
Giles Doyle had taken over as director eighteen months ago. The former director, Vince Mahoney, was relieved of his duties by President Gary Hope in the aftermath of the investigation into the failed assassination attempts of Hope and his father, Jacob Hope, two years earlier in Newport News. Gagliano was promoted to deputy director after the death of Woody Austin, who had died after jumping from his Watergate East apartment balcony. Gagliano currently wore two hats—he was deputy director and he oversaw the Presidential Protection Division
. No special agent had been appointed to replace Austin since his death. Director Doyle just didn’t trust enough people.
The investigation into the assassination attempts pointed many accusatory fingers at the Service. Classified information had been leaked to the terrorists. The investigators suspected a mole, and Woody Austin made a convenient scapegoat, though no concrete evidence had been produced. Nonetheless heads had rolled.
“The threat is credible. Hussein is alive. The intercepts presented by the CIA at the NSC meeting a few hours ago confirm that something is in the works.”
“But what?”
“We don’t know. The CIA has intercepted email from Syria that make mention of a site on the East Coast as the target. They gave it a name … Hygeia. Hygeia is the target.”
“What is a Hygeia?”
“Not a what. A who. Hygeia in Greek and Roman mythology is the daughter of the god of medicine, Asclepius, and his wife, Epione. Hygeia represents good health and hygiene. That’s where the word comes from. She is associated with the prevention of sickness and continuation of good health.”
“Thanks for the lesson, Giles. That doesn’t tell us anything.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it does tell us we need to be ready. I want extra details on all the president’s trips. I have asked the president to re-examine his travel plans and cut back where possible. We almost lost two on Mahoney’s watch two years ago. I will not let it happen again. If anyone so much as farts too close to the president, I want them arrested!”
“Got it,” Gagliano replied.
“And contact Broadhurst. Tell him we need him in the office. His insights into this woman might help.”
“Sir, Clay just finished his last round of chemo. He may not be up to it.” Special Agent Clay Broadhurst had been in charge of security in Newport News that day. His team, with the help of the pharmacist and his brother, had thwarted the plot. His work after his recovery and return to the halls of the Secret Service was instrumental in changing the Service’s protocols. Broadhurst, despite the cancer diagnosis, worked tirelessly to upgrade the Service’s security apparatus and to research how they had allowed a calamity to occur.
Doyle looked over his reading glasses, squinting at his subordinate. The smoke from an ever-present cigarette curling in front of his face.
“Good. If he’s done with chemo, he should be feeling better. It wasn’t a question, Vince.”
“Yes sir.”
Gagliano stood and walked to the heavy oak door. Halfway there, he stopped and pivoted.
“I think we should tell him,” Vince Gagliano blurted.
“We should tell Clay what?”
“Not Clay, sir. The pharmacist, Rodgers. He needs to know what’s going on.”
Doyle began shaking his head before Gagliano finished his sentence. The cigarette dangled from his lips. The blue line of smoke wavered with each oscillation.
The Service’s headquarters was government property and, therefore, a nonsmoking facility. It was a poorly kept secret that Doyle regularly broke that law. No one, however, dared to mention it to the former army ranger.
“Vince, I’m gonna say this one time, and one time only. If anyone—you, Broadhurst, or anyone connected to the Service —reaches out to Jason Rodgers to warn him, I will personally place their balls in a vice and crush them into raisins. I will not fire them. I will make sure that the rest of their career is spent cleaning out the sewers in Washington with their bare hands.”
“It’s not right, Giles. Clay is dying. He made great contributions to this case in the last two years because he was alive. The pharmacist saved his life. Clay is going to be pissed that we’re keeping quiet. He wouldn’t have been around if it wasn’t for the pharmacist. Neither would the presidents …”
“I agree with you. Clay Broadhurst has worked his tail off in the last month to investigate leads and look into this issue. Despite his health, he’s worked harder than most of the other agents. But the National Security Council recommended and the president concurred. No communicating with Rodgers. It’s a direct order from my boss. It’s not fucking negotiable. So, leave it alone, Vince!”
Chapter 5
Reprisal One moved over the mountain, humming a hundred feet above the ocean waves. Its four helicopter blades allowed it to hover as the pilot, at a computer station inside the residence, assessed the winds around Morne du Vitet. Delilah Hussein and Oliver watched from the stone patio at the rear of the residence. The landing struts unfolded from the body of the octagonal craft. A phalanx of eight men waited near the open, grassy area between the main building and the guard barracks.
The wind died. The pitch of the battery-powered engines whined higher. The specially designed drone rolled, turning into its final approach. Three minutes later, the craft was earthbound and the attendants secured it to four fifteen-foot high cement posts in the southern quadrant of the massive compound. A fifth attendant flipped a lever and a massive green tarp framed with large-diameter steel bars slid over the craft, hiding it from the prying lenses of satellites.
“Oliver, explain to me again how this drone prevents the Americans from learning our location?” Hussein asked. She didn’t understand the technology or the strategy behind the flying machine’s capabilities. Only that it worked. Nonetheless, Oliver’s detailed answer put her mind at ease.
“Oui, Madame,” her manservant began. “Reprisal is a communications drone equipped with a remotely switched 4G/satellite high bandwidth connection. All electronic communications, email, video files, pictures, and text messages are uploaded to the hard drive when Reprisal is on the pad via a direct secured connection. The hardware is kept off, unpowered, except when files are being transferred. While it is in flight, the software and hardware are again switched off so as not to send out signals that can be intercepted.”
“Now I remember,” Hussein said. “And how does it stay invisible?”
“Reprisal lifts off from the pad here in the compound. It flies directly south, since that is the shortest distance to water. It stays below five hundred feet, flying preprogrammed routes which change with every sortie.”
One of the men climbed under the drone, sliding on his back on a wheeled dolly. Oliver and Hussein watched the technician complete this task. He reappeared with a small black case and ran toward Hussein and her male concubine. The remaining men stood at rigid attention, guarding the communications vehicle.
“We will have the information downloaded, Madame. The messages will be decoded within ten minutes,” the minion said.
He disappeared inside the residence. When he was gone, Hussein addressed Oliver once more.
“Continue,” she said.
“The aircraft flies the preprogrammed route, a different one every time. When it reaches the predetermined location—again these locations change with each trip—it ascends to transmitting altitude, about three thousand feet. The pilot, in the residence, turns on the software and hardware remotely and begins the transfer. All incoming and outgoing encrypted messages are received and sent. The hardware is then turned off. Reprisal descends below radar detection. Since it is always far out to sea, land-based radars do not see it until it climbs.
“Every route Reprisal takes is a different one. It is quite ingenious actually.”
“Excellent. That makes me feel better. Make sure the drone’s batteries are changed out and it is airborne as soon as possible,” she commanded. “I want messages and updates every hour going forward. We are entering the most crucial phase of the operation.”
“I understand, Madame. I will make it so.”
“How does the drone know what route to take?”
Oliver was ready for the question. “Our pilot,” he motioned toward the house, “has plotted and programed thirty-five different courses all around the Caribbean. The drone follows a different path on each and every sortie. It flies less than fifty feet above sea level and possesses infrared sensors and artificial intelligence allowing it to detect ships and
other obstacles. If it encounters an object or group of objects it will divert, giving a wide berth. This reduces the possibility of detection by warships or drug interdiction patrols. It has also been outfitted with thermite charges. If forward movement ceases or altitude changes abruptly without computer involvement or if its sensors detect that Reprisal is being followed, it will self-destruct.
“The Americans no doubt have been and will be trying to intercept all communications. The messages are routed through the pods on the drone and transmitted at various locations over the ocean, depending on the sortie and the time they were sent.”
“You’re sure the Americans cannot extrapolate our position from these communications?” Hussein asked.
“Extremely unlikely. We will be gone before they figure it out. And each message is written in code.” Oliver had not told Hussein that, a few weeks ago, The Watcher had slipped and used her name in a transmission. It was a one-time occurrence and had not been repeated.
Hussein nodded.
“Is the old wine cellar prepared?” she asked.
“It is. Everything is ready. Charlie and Pierre and two more of my best men are ready to monitor our guests. They will be most uncomfortable.”
“Excellent,” Hussein frowned. “Is Charlie under control?”
“The situation has been addressed with medication,” Oliver assured her. “I personally monitor that he takes it each morning. There will not be a repeat of last time.”
“I followed you, Jason. Stop lying to me. What’s her name? I’ve known for a month now.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Are you screwing one of those tarts that work up there? You are, aren’t you?” Chrissie seethed. “Look at me! Tell me the truth!”
Jason refused to lift his eyes. She had been at him for the last few hours, unrelenting in her sporadic interrogations. Jason had refused to answer during their first confrontation. He had escaped and retreated to his bedroom. Ten minutes later, she pounded on the door until he opened up.