by Tom Carroll
Kitsap College, Poulsbo, Washington
Colonel Dimitri Petrov rested his eyes as he stretched out on the sofa in his campus office. As a tenured professor at a state college, he practically had a lifetime employment contract. He was virtually untouchable by the college administrators who were forever trying to get faculty to increase their effectiveness or develop and adopt new academic and technical programs. His daily late morning nap was his way of notifying the world that his time was simply that: his time. If he chose to spend an hour resting his eyes while pondering the greater meaning of life, that’s what he would do. Today, he was thinking instead of his GRU assignment to eliminate the new American secretary of defense.
When he first received the tasking from Moscow, he found it so hard to believe that he forced himself to decode the transmission twice. What were the odds that he would be facing Colton Garrett again? How many years had it been since Gibralter? More importantly, how could his superiors expect him and his network to execute a high-ranking member of the American cabinet? His agents were selected because they had access to valuable information, and because they had demonstrated their willingness to commit treason against the United States — not because they were murderers. Although they had been extremely effective over the past few years, asking them to actually kill someone seemed completely beyond reason. The mental capacity to coldly plan and carry out a murder required years of specialized training and a high level of skill. And he would know, having been personally responsible for a significant number of executions in the past. Even if the mission were accomplished, it was highly probable the agents responsible for it would be apprehended and interrogated by American security forces. And how long would or could untrained agents withstand professional interrogation before folding and identifying Sara Olson and her handler, Professor Robert Jordan? Perhaps GRU headquarters had already determined his cover would be blown as a result of the operation. Had headquarters concluded that his arrest, trial, and subsequent deportation to Russia were acceptable?
The realization made him sit up from his nap and consider his options. He started writing notes on a pad of paper to get his thoughts organized. First, any attempt on Colton Garretts’s life was likely to fail; there were just too many safeguards and security mechanisms in place on an aircraft carrier to make the task easy or feasible. Even if the plan to kill Garrett were to come to fruition, the GRU assets onboard Reagan would surely be identified and arrested. At that moment, he made a note to review and update his emergency evacuation plan a.s.a.p. so that in the event of the mission’s failure, he could leave America within an hour. He pulled a plain manila folder from the bookshelf behind his desk and was reviewing his current extraction plan when there was a knock on his office door.
“Come in,” he said as he quickly returned the papers to the folder on his desk.
“Good morning, Professor Jordan. I’m Vicki Pitzer. The registrar’s office sent me over to talk with you. I know the quarter started two weeks ago, but I wanted to ask you if I could still enroll in your information security program. It’s okay with the registrar’s office, but they said I’d need your approval and signature.”
The registrar’s office staff knew better than to enroll students this late into the quarter. Instead of just telling the student they were out of luck, they often passed the buck and gave conditional approval, sending the student — and her problem — to the faculty member to handle. Petrov sighed with exasperation and held out his hand. “Let me see your paperwork.”
The woman gave him her college application, transcripts detailing other courses taken, and a short professional biography.
“The reason I didn’t get my application submitted on time is that I just transferred to a reserve billet at Submarine Group NINE at Submarine Base Bangor last week.”
The deep-cover GRU colonel glanced through the stack of papers he had been handed. “So, you are a CT, a Cryptologic Technician? What branch?”
“I’m an N-brancher. It’s a pretty new group — we specialize in network-centric operations. The Navy’s unclassified website says that we detect, protect, and respond to threats against Navy networks, external and internal.”
“Thank you. I know what a CTN is. We have several in the program here. Where was your last duty station?”
“I worked primarily at Fort Meade in Maryland, occasionally in Norfolk, and at other crypto commands on the east coast. The reason they have me doing security clearance processing at Group NINE is that they don’t have a CTN billet.”
Professor Jordan continued to look at the young woman’s application. “I see that you studied at Georgetown. Isn’t that a bit rare for a petty officer?”
“I suppose,” said Vicki. “I did really well in high school, but my family couldn’t help with college, so I enlisted in the Navy. I tested well enough to qualify for the CTN rate, and after boot camp, I received orders to A-school at Pensacola. Once I was at Fort Meade, I was accepted into an evening program at Georgetown, and I’ve been working toward a degree ever since. I had hoped to enroll at the University of Washington when I first moved to Bremerton, but I didn’t realize the UW campus is on the other side of Puget Sound. I need to work for at least a year before I can afford to move to Seattle.”
Petrov put down the application and signed his name to the registrar’s form. “Welcome to the program, Ms. Pitzer. Take this back to the registrar’s office, and I’ll see you at 8:30 Monday morning in Balford Hall, room 210. I hope you’re ready to work hard!”
Vicki Pitzer closed the office door behind her and headed back to the registrar’s office. She wasn’t too concerned about the hard work ahead of her in the professor’s class, because she had already earned a batchelors degree in electrical engineering from Caltech. As proud as she was of that degree, she was most proud of another framed certificate on the wall of her small apartment in Bethesda, Maryland — the one that read, “Honor Graduate, FBI Special Agent Academy, Quantico, Virginia.”
Ship’s Library, the Reagan
GRU agent VADIM opened the door to the ship’s library and wasn’t surprised to find it nearly deserted. Since the Internet was made available to Sailors at sea, the library was one of the loneliest places on the ship. Except for the young Sailor at the front desk, there were only two other people in the small library — one of the ship’s chaplains and Malcolm Simpson, GRU agent NIKITA.
VADIM walked over to the desk where Chaplain Mike O’Brian was reading.
“Good morning, Father Mike! Doing some research for Sunday’s sermon?”
“Not likely,” he chuckled, pointing to the book he was reading, A History of Satanic Worship in the 20th Century. The Roman Catholic priest stood up and placed the book on the cart marked “RETURNS.”
“I find it helps to research the enemy before I go into battle,” he said with a wink, then turned toward the door and left the library. VADIM had discovered that the best way to get some privacy in the library was to comment on what a person was reading and make them feel uncomfortable about it. They typically would respond with a sentence or two and then leave as quickly as possible.
VADIM moved to the front desk and spoke to the young man standing there. “I’m planning to be in here for a while. If you need a break, I’m happy to cover for you. And you can take your time.”
The young Sailor was performing library desk duties as a result of failing his last uniform inspection. The executive officer had said working a shift or two in the ship’s library might help him improve his attention to detail.
“Thanks!” replied the Sailor as he raced out of the library, letting the door slam behind him.
VADIM walked back over to the table where Malcolm was reading an aviation magazine and said quietly, “So, it appears we have to find a way to get rid of Mr. Garrett, hopefully without either us landing in prison, or worse.”
Malcolm scanned the library to ensure that they were alone and then put down his magazine. “You sure know how to clear a room. Yep, I’ve been thinking
a lot about this tasking, and I’m not sure I want to do it.”
“I don’t think we have a choice. I know they have leverage on me and my family, and I assume they have stuff on you too. I think we’re going to have to come up with some options and just hope that Garrett leaves the Reagan before our friends ask us to do the deed. You do understand we have no choice?”
Malcolm nodded his head, wearily. “I know, I know, I just don’t like it. Taking classified information off the ship is one thing; ending somebody’s life is another. Remember, I’m just an engineer. The only killing I’ve ever done is in our online game over the English Channel.”
“Okay, let’s use this private time while we can. Have you come up with any ideas?”
Malcolm leaned in and whispered, “The simplest thing would be to push him off the deck at night. I hear he likes to walk on the flight deck in the evenings after flight ops are secured. A quick shove, and that would be that. A 60-foot drop from the flight deck to the water is a pretty nasty fall, particularly if you aren’t prepared. I haven’t seen him wear a float coat during his walks, and it takes more than a mile to turn this ship around even if someone hears him go overboard. That’s a long time for a person to tread water in the middle of the ocean, and that’s assuming he survives the fall. The Sailors call it a long drop with a quick stop.”
VADIM considered the idea and replied, “I don’t think so. That NCIS protection agent never leaves his side. Even if we were able to get close enough to push him off the ship, she would be right there to see us. You’re an engineer, what about rigging something in his cabin to electrocute him, say, the clock radio or a light fixture?”
“That might be a possibility. We’d need to gain access to his cabin to check out what’s in there, then time to build, test and install some kind of device. I suppose it could be done, and his death would look like an accident, at least for a while.”
“A while? What do you mean?”
“Well, if the secretary of defense is electrocuted by something in his cabin, I’m pretty certain the investigation would eventually determine the cause of the death was a modified device.”
“I could see that investigation leading right back to you, NIKITA.”
“Not necessarily. There are probably hundreds of people on board with the skills to modify a light fixture or radio.”
“Okay,” said VADIM. “What about the software system you work on, the magic thing?”
“You mean Magic Carpet?
“Yes, tell me more about that.”
“Well, basically, Magic Carpet simplifies carrier landings. When pilots are coming in to land, they pay attention to three things. First, they line up with the ship and set up their approach to hook the number three arresting gear wire. Next, they adjust their angle of attack, that’s the pitch of the aircraft. The plane needs to be at a certain angle so its tailhook is in position to catch the wire. The third thing they’re managing is airspeed. So, as they land, they are continually adjusting the aircraft controls to meet all three objectives simultaneously. Hundreds and hundreds of minor corrections. Magic Carpet is a software program that simplifies the pilot’s approach because it flies the plane down a three-degree slope, regardless of the weather or the sea state. The pilot puts the plane in the right angle of attack and line up, and then releases control to the computer. Pretty cool, right?”
VADIM thought for a moment and said, “Maybe there’s something we can do with that.”
The Flight Deck, the Reagan
After lunch, the deck was secured from flight operations and an area on the stern was configured for pistol qualification. The ship’s captain had invited Colt, Lenny, and Special Agent DeSantis to participate in the weapons training. Colt jumped at the chance to fire the pistol he had received as a gift just last week from Vice Admiral Shaffer. The Command Master at Arms, Senior Chief Steadman, was performing range safety officer duties for the pistol qualifications and had set six B-21 silhouette targets at distances of three, seven, and fifteen yards from the firing line. The silhouette targets were segmented into scoring areas based on the approximate lethality of the hit: five points for a fatal wound, and fewer points for less-damaging hits. Sailors were instructed to fire a total of 48 rounds from the three distances in a variety of firing positions. Scoring above 180 points was the minimum qualification score, from 180-203 earned the “marksman” designation, 204-227 earned the “sharpshooter” designation, and those scoring between 228 and the perfect score of 240 were designated as “expert.” The Navy pistol qualification course was designed for the two pistols currently being issued, the M9 and the M11, both double-action, semi-automatic firearms chambered in 9mm Parabellum.
Colt, Lenny, and Anna DeSantis observed from behind the safety barrier as Sailors in groups of six received safety instructions and then fired the qualification course. Because the revised course now included drawing the weapon from a holster, firing from a weak hand, and even firing from a kneeling position, extra safety measures were employed to ensure that the qualification exercise was conducted without injury. Those awaiting their turns to shoot watched their shipmates compete with one another for the highest scores. Those skilled enough to qualify as “expert” received marksmanship medals to wear on their dress uniforms.
After all the Sailors had completed the shooting course, Senior Chief Steadman approached the three civilians and offered, “Captain Solari said you would like to attempt the qualification course. Do any of you have experience with pistols?”
Lenny answered first. “I haven’t shot a pistol since I was a Midshipman at the Merchant Marine Academy, and that was a long time ago, Senior Chief. I qualified as “marksman” with a government 1911 .45 caliber back then.”
“That’s pretty good, sir! Those old 1911s were fairly beat up. We used to joke that you could do more damage with that pistol by throwing it at the enemy than shooting it! How about you two?” he asked, turning to Anna and Colt.
Anna DeSantis presented her NCIS credentials and badge. “I’m pretty good with my issued Sig Sauer P229,” she said. “It’s chambered for .40 caliber, so I borrowed some rounds from Special Agent Orr.” She placed a box of 50 rounds on the table along with her pistol.
Senior Chief Steadman picked up the agent’s P229 and looked it over closely. “This is similar to our issued M-11s, but your weapon is clearly in much better condition,” he said, smiling as he handed it back to her.
“What about you, sir?” the senior chief asked, turning to face Colt.
“I shot lots as a kid, and I was trained with several weapons as a Naval Intelligence officer. I’ve carried 1911s, PPKs, Berettas, Sigs, and just about everything in between. Vice Admiral Shaffer gave me this pistol as a gift last week, and I’d like to shoot it on the qualification course.”
Colt handed Steadman a blue plastic case embossed with the manufacturer’s name —Colt. The senior chief opened the box and picked up the new pistol.
“What do we have here? A Colt 1911 Combat Commander Elite in 9mm, with a special stainless finish. This, sir, is an impressive firearm. May I?”
Colt nodded. The senior chief ejected the empty magazine and pulled back the slide to be sure the weapon was unloaded. Then, he released the slide with a snap, pointed the pistol down range, and squeezed the trigger. The exposed hammer fell on the empty chamber, and the senior chief commented, “About a four-pound trigger pull, and it brakes as smooth as glass. You just can’t beat a 1911 trigger. No excuses for accuracy with this beauty, sir!”
“Thanks, Senior Chief. Any problem if I use a single action on the qual course?”
A 1911 pistol could only be fired if a round was loaded in the chamber, and the hammer had previously been cocked back. Experienced shooters would conceal-carry the pistol in that condition, with the manual thumb safety engaged. This was called “Condition One” or “Cocked and Locked.” To shoot, one needed to draw the pistol from a holster, bring the weapon on target, release the manual thumb safety and pull the
trigger. Some less experienced shooters found the 1911s to be too complicated and often forgot to release the manual thumb safety before squeezing the trigger. It was one of the reasons why military and police forces had transitioned to double-action pistols.
“No problem, sir. Some of the Recon Marines and SEALS carry 1911s and have qualified on this range. Just don’t shoot yourself in the foot!”
Colt, Lenny, and Anna positioned themselves in adjacent lanes, Lenny shooting a Beretta M9, Anna shooting her Sig Sauer P229, and Colt Garrett shooting his 1911 Colt Commander Elite. They fired 12 rounds each at their respective three-yard targets, all scoring a perfect 60 points.
“Not too shabby, lady and gentlemen! It probably will get more interesting as we move the targets back a bit.”
The next distance was seven yards. After another 12 rounds, the targets were moved back again to 15 yards, or 45 feet, and the trio shot a final 24 rounds each. The senior chief declared the range as “safe” and walked out to the targets to score each shooter.
Counting the holes in Lenny’s target, the senior chief said, “Well, sir, you missed earning sharpshooter by just one point. Pretty nice shooting for a guy who hasn’t picked up a pistol in a long time!”
Lenny looked at his target. “Senior Chief, with all due respect, I think this hole is touching the 5-circle. Would a case of soda help to convince you?” he asked with a grin.
The senior chief took another look at the target, and then adjusted the score, saying with a broad smile, “Congratulations, Mr. Wilson, you just scored sharpshooter!”
A large group of Sailors who had stuck around to watch now applauded the result and Lenny took a stately bow. Senior Chief Steadman next scored Anna’s target, and said, “Ma’am, you scored a 231 — expert! I can see they do a good job teaching marksmanship at NCIS.”
“Thank you, Senior Chief! I carry every day. I need to know I can hit what I’m aiming at.”
Finally, Senior Chief Steadman stepped over to Colt’s target and counted the holes. He scored the target twice more and turned to Garrett. “Sir, you scored a perfect 240! I think I need to get me one of those shiny toys! Really, sir, exceptional shooting!”