Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

  He waits fifteen minutes. The traffic on the street is light, he doesn’t see the same car twice, he checks the pedestrians’ faces carefully, one woman walks by him a second time, but she’s obviously lost. It’s safe.

  He pushes open the door and takes a quick look around. She’s in a booth halfway down. The place smells like every other hole-in-the-wall eatery, grease mixed with coffee. As he approaches, she gives him a cautious nod.

  “Thank you so much for coming, I’m at my wit’s end,” she says, her gaze shifting nervously around the diner as if she expects someone to suddenly burst in the door.

  “Where’s your coffee?” Howie asks, pointing at the table.

  She shrugs, her hands flutter up, “I forgot, sorry.”

  “If you don’t have something you stick out like a sore thumb. What can I get you?”

  “Small coffee, one Equal, if you don’t mind.”

  Howie walks to the counter and places his order. He looks back at her. She has sparkling blue eyes, auburn hair and a nice figure but is clearly distraught, fidgeting with her purse, her eyes regularly darting to the front door.

  “I’m glad you called,” Howie says as he sets the coffee down in front of her. Sticky bun for himself.

  “Are we safe here?” Her voice falters.

  “Depends . . .” Howie didn’t want to tell her that if someone intercepted her earlier phone call both of them soon would be identified. Have they tapped his phone? Did they know he was in Pittsburgh with Thorsen? No way to know.

  “Let’s just assume we’re a couple steps ahead of them,” Howie adds.

  “Who’s them?’

  “It’s a long story,” Howie says, checking his watch as he takes a sip of his coffee.

  “I have time, I think,” she says, the faintest grin drifting across her face. She’s prettier when she smiles.

  “We shouldn’t spend hours in here so I’ll make it quick. There’s a group in the Pentagon. Funded by billions in under-the-table funds, it has no published budget, no assigned staff, no offices, no name, no discernible presence whatsoever. It’s called a ‘black program’ and it’s invisible—until you run into it.”

  “I don’t mean to sound naïve, but how can they operate in secret? Aren’t there congressional committees to oversee stuff like that?”

  “Exactly why they exist, to get all the dirty business done without anyone asking questions. And I mean anyone.”

  “Even the secretary of Defense?”

  “Even the president. This program most likely was initiated during the early days of the Cold War—seven presidents ago. Eisenhower or Nixon might have originally signed off on it but during successive administrations, it’s secreted itself under so many layers of deception and disinformation that now it has no more than a shadowy presence in the Pentagon.”

  “So what kind of dirty business?”

  “Supposedly Vector Eleven is—”

  She interrupts him, “Vector Eleven—wait a minute, you said black programs don’t have names.”

  “You have to understand how this stuff works. There are always a million rumors flying around the Pentagon and the buzz about this group is that it’s called ‘Vector Eleven.’ It’s all hearsay but the word is part of their mission is to keep all the mishaps in the nuclear weapons projects as well as in the entire nuclear program—all our Chernobyls, if you will—under wraps so they can keep getting billions to produce more.”

  “We’ve had disasters like Chernobyl?”

  “Three Mile Island was a hair’s breadth away from a catastrophe and there have been close calls with nuclear materials that would curl your hair. For sixty years we’ve been cranking out spent fuel rods from nuclear power plants and high-level radioactive garbage from weapons production. But we haven’t had any safe place to stash the stuff. They’ve spent billions on a massive underground storage facility in Nevada but it’s hung up in politics and red tape.”

  “Yucca Flats—I’ve read about that.”

  “Right. In the meantime, this crap’s piling up at over a hundred sites all over the country faster than they can find room for it. Every week there’s some kind of fire or spill. They keep a really tight lid on it and when anyone starts poking around, alarms go off big-time.”

  “That’s what happened with Risstup?”

  “That’s anyone’s guess. Compared to the threat posed by the mountains of nuclear trash, these lost bombs are just a blip on their radar. Still they don’t like the subject brought up. Which only makes me more suspicious. When I was at the Pentagon, I got too close for comfort so they framed me and forced me out. I was lucky. These people play for keeps. With their billions, they can buy off almost anyone. To achieve their ends they’ve ruined reputations, wrecked marriages and ratted on people to the IRS.”

  “Nice bunch.”

  Howie takes a bite of his bun. “You bet. And every once in a while when they are backed up against the wall, you’ll see the gloves come off. Nothing’s ever been pinned on them of course, but once in a while freak accidents occur. I don’t know whether you caught it on the news some time ago, but a prominent nuclear scientist who threatened to go public with news of severe radioactive contamination on a facility outside of Denver ended up with his car T-boned by a propane truck. All they found of him was a few pieces of denture material. Two years ago, a high-level Energy Department employee accidentally blew his head off cleaning a shotgun the day before he was supposed to testify about leaky storage casks before a congressional committee.”

  “So you think it was these same people who raised the dose?”

  “Maybe getting too risky with you nosing around?”

  “I can’t believe someone can order a murder like they’re ordering a sandwich.”

  “No one person does it. It’s all impersonal and institutional. An order is passed down the chain of command. General at the top orders the next guy, he orders the next, it gets passed along from level to level, getting more and more impersonal each time it changes hands. By the time it gets to the bottom, the order to increase the dose on a VA patient has no more import than an order to gas up a tank.”

  Howie sees Sharon’s face redden, veins on her neck are standing out. She looks off over his shoulder. Howie’s seen his wife with the same expression on her face, a blank stare while her emotions boil over inside. Sylvie will either burst into tears or go into a slow burn.

  Sharon Thorsen chooses the latter. Lowering her brows and furrowing her forehead, she says in a low, almost grim tone, “They’ll pull the plug on Major Risstup over my dead body.” She looks up at Howie— resolute, her eyes flashing, “We have to get him out of there.”

  “I’m glad you came to that conclusion.”

  “You knew that the minute I called you.”

  “I didn’t come up to go to a Steelers game.”

  Sharon looks off into space. Then down at her cup of coffee. She hasn’t taken a sip. Waits a beat and says, “Let me think.”

  Howie gets up from the booth, “While you’re thinking, let’s get my car. We’ve been in here too long already.” He wraps the bun in a napkin, thinking he might need it later.

  The walk to Howie’s Accord takes two minutes.

  “You didn’t bring yours, right?”

  “I left it in the lot like you told me.”

  “Good girl.” He opens the door for her and goes around to the driver’s side, gets in and turns the key. “Which way’s the hospital?”

  “Take a left,” she points, sliding into the seat beside him. “Fortunately, it’s the day after Thanksgiving so no one will be minding the store.”

  Howie swings out of the parking space, heads down the street and turns at the intersection.

  “I figure I can act like I’m taking him down for tests. Just put him in a chair and wheel him out of the ward. Once I’m out, I’ll be okay. And if I wait until the shift change I’m hoping no one will notice. Make sense?” she asks.

  “Sounds like a plan,” he nods and
smiles.

  She had no idea what to expect of Howard Collyer. Yet there doesn’t seem to be anything flaky about him, he’s earnest and strong-willed, seems like a straight shooter. And for a fifty-something guy, he’s also cute. Reminds her of a younger Sam What’s His Name, the actor on Law and Order, but taller. Heavy eyebrows, long nose, thin face, aristocratic-looking. Still has a thick head of hair, great green eyes, a few added pounds around the middle, but the most important—he seems openhearted, kind and clearly concerned about her patient.

  “I think I can pull it off. The place is like a morgue at night. I can walk into the ward and wheel him out like I’m taking him down for an X-ray or something. What’s the worst that can happen? A guard stops me? I can handle those dudes.”

  “They most likely won’t be expecting anyone to take him out of there. Even if someone is watching, you’ll have the element of surprise.”

  “But sooner or later they’re going to wake up and find out Risstup’s gone.”

  “We’ll be far away by then.”

  Sharon’s attention drifts over to him. He can tell she’s trying to piece together their next steps.

  “This is your way of letting me know we’re going to be away for a while.”

  Howie shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. First we have to protect your patient. Then find out what he knows. And decide what to do about it.”

  “You’re not telling me we’re going to end up on a search for a damn H-bomb?”

  Howie shrugs.

  “I’m not sure I’m up for that.”

  Howie turns to look at her. He hasn’t wanted to think about what they’ll do if the major provides information they can act on. What if he gives them the location of a lost nuke? How would three people go up against Vector Eleven with all its resources? If he has trouble dealing with the thought, he can only imagine what Sharon is thinking.

  “Look, we’re just going to have to make this up as we go along.”

  “Okay, I can deal with that, I think.”

  “I have to ask you, do you have family or friends, anyone who will miss you?”

  Sharon shakes her head. “What family I have left is far away. In Hawaii, mostly. I don’t even have a cat. My friends might get concerned but they know I work crazy hours and sometimes go for days without talking to them. I don’t mean to sound like a sad sack, that’s just the way it is. How about you?”

  “Wife, two grown children. I’ll have to make some arrangements.”

  Sharon points out the front window, “Pull up here and stop. The hospital is down the block and to the left. I’ll hoof it from here.”

  “You have your cell, right?”

  “Yup, so I’m going to go in there and act busy until the shift change. When I get him out, I’ll call. I’ll draw you a map to show you where to meet me.”

  “Call me only once. Let’s not make it easy for them. And use some code when you’ve got the pilot, say The Condor is landing or something like that.”

  “Pretty corny, can’t you do better than that?”

  Howie smiles. He watches as she sketches the map. Spunky and smart. Howie can only imagine what he could have ended up with—a bubble-headed young nurse or a frosty old maid—instead he has someone who can keep up. “Why don’t you just say The package is ready?”

  “Much better.” Thorsen hands him her drawing of the hospital grounds. “So I guess I should face up to the fact that the days of being a regular old VA nurse are over.”

  “It’s play-it-by ear time. Who the hell knows what’ll happen?” What he hasn’t told her is that if they succeed in getting the pilot out of the VA hospital, they will only have a few days—three, four, five maybe. Too many people will be looking for them. But if the Pentagon is slow to react, they might have more time. Howie knows they’re going to need it.

  She opens the car door, swings her legs out. Turns back. She’s got something on her mind. Scowling, her body tensed and her expression indignant, she huffs, “What the hell I’d like to know is how can they think they can get away with crap like this in the United States of America?”

  “Damn good question.” Someday Howie would find time to tell her that people would stop at nothing when billions of dollars worth of defense contracts, the future of the nuclear weapons program and the careers of thousands of people in the Pentagon and the defense establishment are threatened.

  Chitchat is over, Sharon checks her wristwatch. “Okay, I’m off,” she says. “Make sure your cell’s on. The shift change isn’t until nine so I’ll be at least two hours.”

  Then Thorsen makes a gesture that surprises Howie. Through the open door she extends her hand back to him.

  “Wish me luck,” she says. Howie leans over to join her in a handshake.

  “You’ll do fine,” he says.

  “I know,” Sharon smiles breezily at him and quietly shuts the door. She walks off down the darkened street, as nonchalant as if she’s off to run an errand.

  As he watches Thorsen disappear around the corner, Howie reminds himself to give Sylvie a call. She would be expecting to hear from him by now. He hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s going to tell her but he owes her some kind of explanation. And he needs to contact Winn Straub. Without a contact on the inside, Howie knows they don’t stand a chance.

  He turns around and heads back the way he came with an eye out for someplace with an Internet connection.

  Two lattes and two hours later, Howie is sitting in his second Internet café chatting with a Carnegie Mellon grad student who sat down next to him and started pecking away at a laptop, putting the finishing touches on his dissertation. Knowing enough physics to carry on a conversation, Howie’s able to kill time making small talk about the grad student’s paper.

  When he puts his computer to sleep and folds the case shut, Howie jumps at the opportunity, “I couldn’t borrow your machine for a minute, could I?”

  “For what?”

  “I need to send a couple emails. Mine’s in the shop.”

  The grad student rolls his eyes, he’s hesitant.

  “I’ll delete them when I finish, no skin off your butt. It’ll just be a couple minutes.”

  “I guess . . .” he says, reluctantly sliding his computer across the table to Howie.

  “Thanks, appreciate it.”

  Using an alias, Howie opens an account at Hotmail. Then he composes a draft to Sylvie.

  Sylvie, You must not be alarmed if you do not hear from me. Things have developed up here that necessitate me staying away for a few days, maybe as long as a week. I’ll keep in touch via email. For some reason my cell phone is on the fritz again.

  Howie rereads the email, tosses it and starts over. He needs to act breezier, less concerned.

  Hi Honey. Everything’s fine up here. No problems. But I might have to be up here a few more days doing some research. And my cell’s on the fritz again so I’ll stay in touch by email. Talk to you soon. Love you, Howie

  Five minutes later, he receives an email telling him his Hotmail account is active. He sends off his revised email to Sylvie. Then composes a second to Winn Straub. Two years ago when Howie left the Pentagon, Winn gave him a secure email address, confiding in his former college roommate, “If the Pentagon ever tries to pull any funny stuff, use this email address to contact me and I’ll get them to call off the dogs.”

  I’m going to need your help, Winn, he types. Winn Straub was a bookworm at UVa, an honors econ major who relished being the roommate of a varsity football player. And after Howie’s famous kick, for years he’s loved boasting that he was The Boot’s roommate at college. Straub has a job at the CIA that’s so secret even his wife isn’t sure what he does. Back in his heyday, he was stationed overseas—Eastern Europe in the height of the Cold War. Winn confided in him once over drinks, “If I could tell you just a couple things I did over there, I’d have your hair standing on end inside of two minutes.”

  Now assigned to the Pentagon, he acts like just another high
-level bureaucrat. But Howie has always assumed that Winn Straub is a major player—the CIA’s watchdog at the Pentagon maybe? Straub would never own up to it of course. But the fact that Winn can hand out secure email addresses attests to his roommate’s stature at the Agency.

  Howie pauses as he composes the email, he isn’t sure how much he should tell him. He decides he’ll keep most of the details to himself in this first email, only letting him know he might need assistance in the next few days.

  Having sent and deleted them, he logs off and hands the laptop back to the grad student. “Thanks, appreciate it,” Howie says.

  For a moment he wonders if he shouldn’t make an offer for the machine. After one last cell call, they should stop using the phones as they are too easy to trace. Howie knows the Internet will be their only option, poaching on hotspots at airports, libraries, colleges or roaming around suburban neighborhoods—until they pick up a signal and piggyback on some unsuspecting family’s Wi-Fi connection. Even if the analysts and codebreakers at the Defense Intelligence Agency or the National Security Agency could locate them on one wireless setup, as long as they keep hopping from one to another, Howie is guessing they can stay a step ahead.

  About to make the grad student an offer that he can’t refuse, Howie realizes he needs to conserve his cash. Going to an ATM would be sending a telegram to Vector Eleven. Before he left, he grabbed all the money from his secret stash in the locked drawer inside his war room, but fifteen hundred bucks can only hold up so long. From this point, he knows he has to start thinking like a damn spy, every action examined for its potential ramifications down the line.

  Howie checks his watch. He wonders how Thorsen is doing—two hours and counting since she left for the VA hospital. Time to head for the hospital. Thanking the grad student again, he sets out across the parking lot for his car.

  Two rights and a left later, the ten-story tan brick government building comes into view. He pulls up and parks in front of the building, turning off the engine and dousing his lights. Surrounded by a sea of parking lots, the building has its night security illumination on, pinpoints of crisp blue against a dark sky. The neighborhood is quiet. Bordering the campus of the University of Pittsburgh, the streets around the hospital are deserted except for a few parked cars.