by Mark Lemke
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Excerpts From
?
'Off The Grid'
A Thriller By
Mark Lemke
?PROLOGUE
I
Nick Connor was a high functioning dead man.? He got out of the cab on Pennsylvania Avenue, near where visitors enter the White House, handed the cabbie two twenties, not asking for any change in return, and headed up the walkway towards the guard house.? He was carrying a brown leather valise, and was still dressed like a farm hand-smelled like one too.? He wore an old canvas jacket lined with comfortable corduroy, sleeves torn from brushes with barbed wire fences.? The dark, red splatter on the jacket looked like it could be transmission fluid or even spaghetti sauce-anything except what it really was.? His blue jeans were faded and worn, and the bottom of each pant leg was frayed in back as if he'd walked on them for months with his work boots.? An old ball cap, with dirty sweatbands around the bill, covered his long, ratty hair.? A short beard covered the cleft in his strong chin, which completed the look.
He was here to meet with the President of the United States and give him the information he requested to obtain months ago. He trusted that the president would know what to do with it.?
For weeks now he struggled with walking upright, his head pounding behind eyes that squinted to keep out the painful light due to debilitating cluster headaches.? He didn't know he was bleeding into his brain and had an inoperable cerebral aneurism.? He didn't know when the aneurysm burst it would spill blood into the subarachnoid space around the brain, where the blood would mix with his cerebrospinal fluid.? He didn't know that subsequent spasm of the blood vessels-where the muscles that line the blood vessel wall contract and clamp down on the artery-and more bleeding from the original aneurysm would result in almost immediate death. ?
What he did know was that he had business to take care of, and he was not about to fail.? Not now.? He'd come too far and knew too much.? He knew he didn't have much time left.? Time.? The word would have made him laugh if his head didn't hurt so much.? Knowing his future with certainty was comforting in a strange sort of way. Being on the brink of death also brought with it a finality he flirted with many times in the past; in the cold mountainous regions of Afghanistan, the war-torn cities in Somalia, and the sweltering hot jungles of the Philippines.? But today, death held no sway over him because today he had a plan.? Maybe it wasn't a good plan, but it was a plan.? Only time would tell if it was a good one or not.? Time.? There was that word again.? He hadn't realized how often it was used.
He was utterly tired and felt a need for room service and a good night's rest . . . at least as good as he could get now.? He felt sixty years old, despite being just over half that age.? His meeting with the President of the United States would have to be necessarily brief.?
?He suddenly stopped walking, and turned his head to the side for no particular reason, as a strong premonition washed over him.? In the past, having a premonition was simply one of those things he'd experienced-hell, everyone experiences-but didn't think too much about.? He knew it to be the anticipation of an event without conscious reason or previous warning.? In other words, knowing what is going to happen by purely psychic means-that feeling that "I've been here before." Or maybe it somehow presaged future events.? But now he wasn't so sure if this was a no-never-mind moment.? He wasn't sure about a lot of things anymore.? He'd recently come across the term 'quantum cosmology' in a long expos? unfortunately written in language that an ordinary intelligent person-including he-couldn't completely understand.? What he was able to glean from the article was simply that there are theories that speak to the exact process by which a premonition works. Schr?dinger's Cat (which he still couldn't explain), parallel universes, the 'many-worlds' hypothesis, and their relationship to perceived reality, are all relevant to the topic, but mostly undecipherable and very much improvable.?
Despite the fact that it was over his head, he was not inclined to take a premonition lightly anymore.? And right now he had a premonition, which left him with the feeling that meeting with the president was a bad idea.? He suddenly felt more like a liability than an asset.? He was someone who knew too many details and too much secret information.? He naively thought he could just walk into the White House, give up all his information, and walk out again.? More than likely, he would be put on a plane to Guantanamo Bay and would not see the light of day for a long time, if ever.? If he was a threat to somebody before all this started, he was a peril to National Security now, and he would not be allowed to simply walk around unrestrained.?
He turned his back to the White House entrance and to any of the cameras that he was sure would be taking pictures and hurried away.
As he walked-stumbled more like it-Nick felt devoid of emotions.? He had no energy anymore and felt like an old man who had seen too much despair in his life.? He certainly had little enthusiasm left.? Just across the road was the Hay-Adams hotel.? He held firm to his valise, walked over to the hotel, and checked in.
II
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The Hay-Adams, a historic boutique hotel, was originally designed and built as a residential hotel in the 1920s.? Now a luxury hotel, it resembles a private mansion where guests receive exceptional service in a discreet, intimate atmosphere.? Surrounded by panoramic views of the White House, Lafayette Square, Lafayette Park, and St. John's Church, it's the kind of place where you don't ask the cost of a room.? If you needed to ask, you probably couldn't afford it.?
Nick walked into the opulent lobby dressed more like a homeless person than the diplomats and politicos who would normally stay there, and drawing stares from the inconspicuous security personnel.?
At the Front Desk the well coiffed receptionist with a $200 manicure did a good job of being polite, despite his looks.? She smiled at him in a condescending way.
"May I help you sir?"
"Yes, I believe you may," Nick said as he slid over one of his clean credit cards that had his real name on it.? It was the kind of card reserved for elite clientele-the Stratus Rewards Visa, more commonly known as the 'white card,' issued by invitation only-and it had the desired effect as the woman stared at the seldom seen white piece of plastic.?
"I'd like a suite on the top floor overlooking Lafayette Park."
The woman ran the card and her face brightened noticeably.
"Certainly, Mr. Connor!? How many days will you be staying with us?"
Ah, yes.? The plan.? He simply said, "Two days."? That would be plenty of time.
"Very good!" she said as she handed him a pen to sign in.? "If there is anything we can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you.? Perhaps you could arrange for some room service.? I'd like a six-pack of ice-cold beer, a nice rib eye steak-rare-and something for desert.? You pick.? I'm sure you know what's good around here.? Give me about 30 minutes and then have it sent to my room."
"Absolutely, sir!"? Then, without looking directly at him, she asked,? "Would you like to me send the valet up?" she said with as much tongue as she could get in her cheek.? "It looks like you've been . . . travelling."
Nick smiled at her.? "Nah.? I'm fine.? But I'm going to be expecting somebody later.? When he shows up, please see that he's shown up to my room."
"Of course, Mr. Connor.? I'll arrange a reception room for your use if you'd like."
"That's thoughtful of you, but it won't be necessary," Nick said.? "One more thing.? Could you please have a doctor come to my room?"? He knew a place like this would have a concierge doctor either in the hotel or nearby.?
"Right away!"
"Thank you."?
Nick took his card key, picked up the worn leather valise he arrived with, and headed to the elevators for the short ride to the top floor and his room.?
The suite had two doors to make it look grander, though only one actually opened.? Once inside, he looked longingly at the bed with its creamy white down comforter on it, but got out his cell phone and dialed the number for his
number two man in NeXus, Eric Jansen.
Eric answered the phone in the usual way, "Jansen."
"Eric, it's me."
"Nick?" Eric said incredulously.? "Is that really you?"
"Yeah, it's me."
"Where've you been?? I haven't heard from you for quite a while.? I was starting getting worried."
He paused to reflect on the question Eric just asked and what the real answer was.? It was an innocuous question, something you say when you haven't seen someone in a long time.? But the question had new meaning for him now.?
"I've been on an op," was all he decided to say.? "I'll fill you in when you get here. ?I'm in D.C., at the Hay-Adams."
"The Hay-Adams?? Not exactly low profile.? Is Marti with you?"
Nick cringed.? "Yeah, sure," he lied.? She was, after all, in a manner of speaking.
"Hey, you don't sound too good.? Everything alright?"
"I'm just tired.? Get here as soon as you can, okay?"
"I'll be there in a couple of hours."? NeXus headquarters, in Williamsburg, Virginia, wasn't far away by company jet.
"See ya then," Nick said and hung up.
He figured he had time to take a shower before his food and the doctor showed up.? He could wash off one or two layers of grunge and climb into the soft terry robe hanging in the closet in the meantime.?
Twenty minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door.? Nick pulled on the robe, got out his Sig Sauer and went over to look through the peephole in the door.? He saw a man holding a black bag-the doctor.? He opened the door, stood back, and his heart started to palpitate.? His head felt like it would explode, as his vision started to blur and blood began to trickle out his nose.??His legs went rubbery as he started to buckle and slump to his knees.? The doctor couldn't stop him from going down but was at least able to break his fall.? As suddenly as it started, it stopped.? Nick sat still on the floor for a minute, getting his breathing and heart rate back under control.
"Thanks for coming, doc . . ." he said between deep breaths.
"Do you think you can stand?" the doctor asked worriedly.
"I think so."
"Let's get you to the bed," the doctor said as he put his arm around Nick's back and under his arms, helping Nick up and then to the bed, where he propped up a couple of pillows and laid Nick back on them.?
"Can you tell me what that was all about?" he asked as he reached for his bag.
"I've been out of the country recently.? I may have picked up a bug."
"Well, let's have a look."? He pulled his stethoscope out of his bag and started to listen to Nick's heart and lungs.? He took his pulse, looked at his eyes, his ears, and in his throat.? He got out a blood pressure cuff, wrapped it around his left arm, and pumped it up, then listened to his pulse as he slowly let the pressure off the cuff.?
"Doc, you don't look so good!" Nick quipped with a weak smile on his wan face.
"Mr. Connor, we need to get you to a hospital," the doctor said with a sense of urgency in his voice.?
"Nah.? I think I'm going to stay here for a while . . ." he said, his voice trailing off as if worn out from the effort.
"Mr. Connor, I don't think you know how serious your condition is! Your skin is pasty and your blood pressure is dangerously low.? I'm seeing some bleeding in the back of your eyes.? I don't know what caused this but you need to get some help soon.? What country did you say you were in?"
"I didn't say.? Doc, I'm well aware of my condition. ?I just need you to give me something to keep me going for a while.? Can you do that?"
The Doctor put his equipment back in his bag.
"I don't work that way, Mr. Connor," he said disapprovingly.
Nick caught his eyes and looked deep into them.? "This is important, doc.? Will you help me?"
Something in Nick's eyes mesmerized the concierge doctor.?
"I'll help you if you agree to go into the hospital if your condition deteriorates.? Deal?"
"Deal," Nick said, knowing that the promise was irrelevant.
The doctor reluctantly got out a cotton swab, some alcohol, and cleaned a spot on Nick's left arm.? He pulled out a syringe and a small bottle of something, drew it in and injected it into Nick's arm.? He affixed a small bandage to the injection site and then closed up his bag.
"I'll be back to check on you in a little while," he said dourly.
Nick was already starting to feel better and relaxed on the bed. ?Soothing warmth had started in his stomach and began to spread outward from there.? His head stopped throbbing and for the moment, he felt 'good'.?
"Thanks, doc.? I'd get up to show you out, but . . ."
There came another knock at the door.
"Do you mind getting that for me?"
The doctor opened the door and a young man in a coat and tie brought Nick's food in under a silver warmer. ?He also brought in six longneck Yuengling beers-in a well iced high-top of all things-and a small table adorned with a white tablecloth, linen napkins, and a single red rose in a cut glass vase.? The man swept in, saw the doctor standing there with Nick lying on the bed, and put the food on the coffee table in the spacious living area.
"I'll just leave this here for you," he said as he hurried out of the room as quietly as he had entered.
"Thanks," Nick called out after him as the door was closing.
The doctor said, "Call me if you need anything.? I'll put my card on the desk, over there," pointing to the writing table in the corner.
"Thanks again, doc," Nick said as he made an effort to get off the bed to show the doctor out.
"Just get into bed and rest.? I'll show myself out."
Nick breathed out.? That would be fine by him.? He was comfortable where he was and whatever the doctor injected him with was giving him a nice buzz.? He lay there a few more minutes but the aroma of the charbroiled steak was just too good for him to let it sit there and get cold.? Besides, it might be his last meal for a long time.? He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slowly worked his way over to a soft couch in front of the coffee table.? He plunked himself down, opened one of the beers, and starting eating the delicious food.
Three beers later, steak gone, and the luscious raspberry tart desert finished, Nick climbed back onto the bed and on top of that cozy looking comforter.? He fell asleep immediately, content for the time being.
III
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He was startled awake by another knock on the door.? As he opened his eyes, he looked out the open curtains and saw that night had descended on the capital city.? He must have been asleep for hours.? He shook his head to get rid of the cobwebs as the knock on the door was repeated.?
He swung his legs over the side of the bed again and gingerly got to his feet.? He was pleased he didn't fall over.? He grabbed his gun again and went to the door.? He looked through the peephole and opened the door.
"Hey, Nick!" Eric said with genuine enthusiasm in his voice as he held out his hand, walking into the room.?
"Come on in," Nick said as he let Eric in the room.
Eric's tone changed when he looked closer at his boss and friend.? "What the hell happened to you?"? Nick knew he looked like he'd been in a POW camp for a few months.? He had lost a lot of weight, his hair was disheveled, he had bags under his eyes, and he was white as a ghost.
"Hey, want some food?? They have pretty good room service here."
"I'm okay.? I'll take one of those beers though," he said eyeing one of the remaining three soldiers.?
"Grab me one while you're at it," Nick said as he shuffled over to the couch again and plopped down.?
"Man, you look like you've been rode hard and put away wet.? You sure you're okay?" Eric asked as he handed Nick a beer.
"I'll admit, I'm a bit tired, but then I didn't ask you here so you could act like my mother.? Chill, man.? I've got to bring you up to speed on some things."
Eric sat down on the couch across from Nick and said, "I'm not going anywhere."
After that he remain
ed quiet, knowing better than to ask him a bunch of dumb questions.? A late spring storm settled in over D.C., and a rumble of thunder made Nick squirm.? He went over to the window and watched rain fall gently on the streets below him.?
"You ever heard of Operation Evening Star?"? Nick asked in a way that sounded more like a thought he was having, rather than a question he expected an answer to.
Unsurprisingly, Eric said, "No."?
"You're going to find this interesting then," Nick said as he turned back to face his friend.
He picked up his beer, drained half of it and started talking in a low, soft voice.??
"I guess you could say it started on March 17, 1978.? It actually started decades before that, but for the time being we'll start in 1978, if that's okay with you."
"Hey man, it's your nickel."
"Okay then.? On March 17, 1978, somewhere above the Arctic Circle, the USS Batfish, one of our nuclear fast attack submarines, showed up to intercept and track a Soviet submarine-which it did for fifty days, undetected. ?The Batfish snuck up on her and collected a ton of information, including sound signatures from the reactor plant, turbine generators, motor generators, ventilation, the screw, and even the ops they were running."
Nick stopped to catch his breath and have more beer.? He hadn't had any in a while, and it was cold and tasty.? Eric was staring at him, wondering how he knew so much about submarines all of a sudden.?
"The government code-named it Operation Evening Star.? Scuttlebutt is the Soviets didn't know that the Batfish had followed them for so long, until US Navy Chief Warrant Officer John Anthony Walker sold us out and gave them the information.? We finally busted his ass in 1985 for espionage."
"Yeah, I remember reading something about that," Eric said, wondering how Nick knew all this and wondering where this was going.
"Bear with me on this," Nick said, sensing Eric's confusion.? "The information the Batfish collected was buried so deep and so dark that literally only a few people knew about it for thirty years.? They were feeding the Navy all the intel they were collecting, as they were collecting it.? That's how we know so much about what they learned.? But here's where it gets interesting."? He paused as if remembering back.? "After fifty days of shadowing that Russian sub, the Batfish went dark and was never heard from again.? The Navy claimed it was rough seas that caused them to sink.? Secretly they suspected that the Russian sub found them and sunk them.? Either way, they lied."
"Well color me surprised.? The military lied about what they knew," Eric said with considerable sarcasm.
Nick ignored him.? "To this day they've never explained what happened to the Batfish, nor did they explain how the Batfish was able to remain undetected for so long either."
Nick paused and finished the rest of his beer.
"But I know how they did it," he said, as he looked out the window.?
Eric looked at him.? "How could you possibly know what happened in 1978 if the military won't release the information?? And why is that so damn important?"
Nick continued to stare straight ahead out the window, not really seeing anything, feeling the beginning of another migraine coming on.
"It's important because I'm the only person alive who knows where the USS Batfish is.? And for that, someone wants to kill me."
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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This book took exactly 18 years, three months, 12 days, and 17 hours to complete, and would never have been finished without persistent, yet gentle encouragement from my wife, Jeanne.? She was also my first editor and biggest supporter.? She helped me by reading the final revision out loud with me, so we could make the 'final' set of changes.? Her support and understanding has been invaluable to me throughout this project.? Thank you for helping me bring this ridiculous idea of writing a book, to fruition!
Editing the book was a joint effort by everyone who read the draft versions.? My daughter Megan and my sister Paula helped me with ideas, corrections, and encouragement.? Marilyn, who edits professional writing for a living, fixed all the syntax problems and eliminated all the superfluous commas.? My son-in-law Mark added his ideas and drew the illustration.
The setting for this contemporary thriller is the highly controversial world of commercial nuclear power.? Like all good tales, this book is a work of fiction.? Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of my imagination only, or are used fictitiously.? Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is coincidental.?
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Red North! ? 2012 by Mark Lemke
All rights reserved. Copyright under Berne Copyright Convention, Universal Copyright Convention, and Pan-American Copyright Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
ISBN 978-0-615-58992-3
Cover design by Natasha Snow
Thrillers By Mark Lemke
Red North!
Off The Grid
The Elephant's Foot