Margolis jumped up from his chair, planted himself between his two captains, and slammed their shoulders. “Give it to me, boys. Now!”
His captains hammered on their tablets; then the one to the left looked up. “Groton, Connecticut, Sir. It’s the nuclear sub base, New London.”
“Damn,” Conley said. “Right in our own backyard!”
“General,” Diana said. “Can you task Delta?” Her fingers were laced together in prayer.
“Negative,” Margolis said. “Posse Comitatus.”
“What the hell’s that?” Kirby asked as one of the young analysts at the end of the table whispered to another, “Did he say pussy and tatas?” But no one heard him.
“It’s the law,” Margolis said. “Can’t task the army for domestic ops without Congressional approval. But Delta’s down at Fort Bragg anyway—no time.” He stood up fully and looked at Diana. “We can’t do it. But you can.”
She looked over at Shepard. “Condition Three. Get the Tac teams spun up.” Shepard jumped up, grabbed his laptop, and rushed out. The rest of the analysts froze in their chairs. “All of you,” Diana snapped. “Move!” They hustled out the door after Shepard.
Margolis looked at his watch. “New Haven to Groton. Midnight, no traffic. Maybe an hour and a half, tops.” He turned his gaze on Diana. “Who’s your point man on this?”
She looked over at Morgan, and they locked eyes. “Him.”
“Ms. Bloch,” Margolis said, but he was also looking at Morgan. “You’re the boss here. But if I were in your shoes, I’d make the same call.”
* * * *
Morgan and Diana stood just outside the War Room, side by side, watching Zeta personnel sprinting through the hallways, calling out orders to one another, and shouldering loads of support gear. Morgan thought it looked like a hornet’s nest that had just been stomped by a boot. General Margolis had remained inside the room with his captains, and they could hear his voice booming as he spoke on the phone to an unfortunate naval duty officer somewhere south.
“Well, tell him it’s General Sheldon Margolis and to get me the chief of ONI! You’ve got sixty seconds, Sailor, and then you’ll both be posted as mess men in goddamn Djibouti!”
Diana touched Morgan’s arm, but she didn’t look at him. “I would apologize to you properly, but there isn’t time.”
Morgan nodded slightly as he watched the frenetic activities. “Well, give it a shot. The short version.”
“I used you,” she said. “I knew you’d disobey orders and follow your own instincts, based on that stubborn sense of honor you’ve got. I couldn’t task you formally because as you saw from my message, there’s a leak in the plumbing.”
“I got that much,” said Morgan. “But you didn’t really trust me either.”
“Like you trusted Collins? Trust is a liability in this business,” Diana said. “But I also owe you for using Jenny to clear you.”
“That’s three.” He glanced sideways at her and grinned. “Must be a record for you.”
“And you. Don’t push it.”
“It’s all good,” Morgan said. “Can’t wait to hear Jenny’s side.”
“She did well.”
“Yup. I didn’t marry her for her looks.” He grinned harder. “Well, maybe a little.”
The door of the Team Room banged open, and Alex walked out to grab a range finder from a runner. Morgan saw her, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled. She turned and jogged over. She was already geared up, all in black tactical, with fingerless gloves and a headset rig. Morgan took her face in both of his hands and looked in her eyes.
“It’s times like these when a father should say something meaningful,” Morgan said. “Something poetic, maybe about faith and family and love.” Alex said nothing. Her eyes gleamed. Morgan smiled. “Go zero your rifle in the sim. And get yourself a balaclava but no scarf. You’re gonna be on the skids, and it’ll be cold up there tonight. Five minutes. Hustle up.”
Alex grinned, pulled away, and ran.
“That was very touching,” Diana said. “For you.”
Morgan dropped his voice to a murmur. “You think it’s Kirby, right?”
“No, you hope it’s Kirby. But if you find yourself flying into an ambush, we’ll know.”
The Team Room door burst open again. Spartan and Diesel, both fully geared up and bristling with weapons, marched straight up to Diana and Morgan. Their expressions were tight, dark and brooding.
“What’s up?” Morgan said. “We’re heading for the strip in five.”
“It’s Bishop,” Spartan said. “He’s MIA.”
“What do you mean, missing?” Diana said.
“I mean missing. As in AWOL. As in...gone.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jenny Morgan was trying to stifle her sobs.
She lay in utter darkness, all curled up in a ball, her hand clamping her mouth as the tears streamed from her eyes and waves of nausea stung her gullet. She was on her right side, knees pinned to her chest, her hip grinding and bumping on the carpeted floor. It was freezing cold, the noises deafening. She’d never in her life felt so helpless, or scared, or alone.
She was locked in the trunk of her own car.
“Help me, Dan,” she moaned into her drool-soaked palm. “God in heaven, please help me.”
But Dan wasn’t there, or anyone else who could help her. The closest human being was the madman driving her car.
How could I have been so stupid? She admonished herself as the car hit a rut on the highway. Her head bounced up and smacked the metal trunk. She gasped and gripped her stinging skull with both hands. I’m no spy! That’s him, not me. What the hell was I thinking?
She rubbed the aching spot on the left side of her head until the throbbing calmed down. Then she took a deep breath and smeared the tears from her face.
Think, she demanded of herself. Think! What would Dan say?
That’s all it took. She asked something of her brain, and it delivered. Dan had said, “If you’re ever in trouble, just talk to yourself.”
She had asked him where he had gotten such a silly idea, and he had answered, “Because whenever I’m in trouble, the one person I always want to talk to is the wisest, smartest person I’ve ever met. You.”
Then they’d made love. She prayed that they would again someday. But, for now, she was in the deepest shit she had ever been in, so what did she have to lose?
“You’d better start thinking fast now, or you’re going to die,” she said softly.
How long had that bastard been driving? She tried to look at her watch, but it didn’t have a luminous dial. Maybe an hour, she guessed. Maybe more.
She’d been cruising over to Home Depot, just to drop off an old cell phone for recycling, and pick up some paint for the mud room when it happened. Her cell phone had buzzed, with no caller ID, but ever since meeting Diana Bloch she’d been answering everything, just in case.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Morgan?”
“Yes?”
“I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Lincoln.” It was a different voice, dark and authoritative, and right away her heart had started thumping. “Ms. Bloch would like to meet with you.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. What is your current location?” the man asked.
“Well, I’m in Andover, heading over to Home Depot.”
“Wait one, please,” he said and then, after half a minute of silence, “Please drive to the West Parish Garden Cemetery. Do you know where that is?”
“It’s in West Andover.”
“Very good. Half an hour, the main entrance.”
“Okay,” Jenny said as the line went silent. And she’d actually grinned with the thrill.
Idiot. She belittled herself now.
So she’d turned around again,
picked up Broadway, crossed over the Merrimack River, and headed south for the cemetery. It was, of course, all dark and spooky, and no other cars were in the parking lot. She got out of the Camry, walked to the high stone archway, and was happy that at least there was moonlight.
I’m not really dressed for this. She was wearing jeans, sneakers, a college sweatshirt, and her black leather car coat. She laughed at herself as she leaned back on the thick stone buttress—wishing she had a cigarette so she’d at least look the part. But then her mirth ended.
A black, two-door Audi rolled into the lot and parked next to her Camry. A man got out. He was huge, black, and bald, with gleaming eyes and wide nostrils. He wore black cargo trousers and a thick motorcycle jacket with a turned-up collar. Her heart started pounding like crazy as she came away from the wall.
He strode right up to her and looked down. “Mrs. Morgan,” he said. It wasn’t really a question, but her shoulders sagged with relief. He knew who she was, so he wasn’t just some mugger, even though he had a voice like a hoarse panther.
“That’s me,” she said. “Where’s Ms. Bloch?”
“She’s not coming,” Bishop said. Then he reached inside his jacket, pulled out a huge handgun, and pressed the barrel right into her chest. “But you are.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped and jerked back against the stone as her knees started shaking.
“First things first,” he said. “Give me your cell phone.”
She had no idea why she did it, but instead of giving him her iPhone from her left-hand pocket, she pulled out the old dead one from the right. He snatched it from her trembling fingers, stuck it in his pocket and gripped her elbow, hard. Then they walked toward her car.
“Give me your keys.”
“What do you want?” she sputtered. “Who are you?”
“I’m a man on a mission, and you’re my insurance policy. The keys, now.”
She handed them over, and he popped the Camry’s trunk. Then he stood back and waved the black automatic. “Get in.”
“No!” She shook her head madly as the tears sprang to her eyes.
“I’ll drop you right here,” he snarled. “Then your husband and Alex won’t have to haul your corpse so far.”
She was shaking like a leaf as she looked at the black maw of the trunk. But she somehow managed to hike one foot over the bumper and folded herself inside. He looked down at her once more, smiled slightly, and slammed it shut. She had sobbed like a child.
And now she was here, on her way to only God knew where.
They were moving fast; she could tell that much. At the beginning, that man who called himself Bishop had stopped a few times at some lights. But after that there were no more stops, and the car zoomed faster. She heard the deep bellows of truck horns twice, like ships out there in the night.
They were on some highway, maybe 495? But was it south toward Rhode Island or north to New Hampshire? She couldn’t tell. Who was he? Did he really know Dan and Alex? Or was he some vengeful villain from Dan’s past? There were plenty of those, she was sure.
It doesn’t matter! You’re a hostage. He can pull off the road at any minute, take you out into a field, and kill you! Or worse...
“You’re my insurance policy,” he’d said. Did that mean some sort of exchange? and with whom? Was this some sort of a ransom thing? and who’d want her back except Dan?
Call him!
She suddenly remembered her cell phone, and she squeezed her left arm between the ceiling and her up-thrust left hip—fumbling in her jacket pocket. She got it out and cradled it to her chest like a precious, blessed amulet. She managed to squeeze her trembling right fingers to the screen and swipe it, and the soft yellow glow on her face nearly made her cry again.
Then she froze. She’d heard nothing from up front through the trunk until now—no radio, talking, or even a cough. But now she heard that man called Bishop talking to someone on his own phone.
“Roger, General. I’m thirty minutes out. And I’ve got a package you’ll like.”
General? General who? She couldn’t hear the other person talking, so her kidnapper was using an earpiece. Was he some sort of army guy? But why would a soldier do something so horrible like this? and then...
“That’s right,” he said. “Morgan’s wife.” And he laughed but said nothing else.
Sweet Jesus! Call Dan! She started to tap out his cell number, but her mind was a swirling fog. She flubbed it, cursed, and started again. Then she stopped. What’s Dan going to do? You can’t even tell him where you are, and you’ve only got less than half an hour now!
Oh God...
She froze as she remembered. She switched hands, clutching the phone in her right as she snaked her left arm back over her hip and butt cheek. Her fingers scrambled into the trunk’s rear shelf until they gripped something. The shotgun!
She’d completely forgotten that she’d stuffed it in there. But so what? She had no idea how to use it, except as some sort of club. Even if he opened the trunk and she swung it, he’d just shoot her or beat her to death with it.
You’d damn well better figure it out!
She twisted as much as she could onto her back and dragged out the case, inch by inch. Then she squirmed back around onto her right side until it was stuffed lengthwise, between her knees and her face. By the dim glow of her phone, she unzipped it.
There it was—long, black, gleaming, and totally incomprehensible. She fumbled for the box of shells, tore it open, and they spilled all over the trunk floor. They were green and plastic, with a shiny copper base on one end.
I don’t even know which end goes in where!
She started to sob again, feeling hopeless and helpless. Then she whispered hoarsely, “Shut the hell up!” She stared at her phone. What did Alex say every time she had a question? “Google it, Mom.” No matter what the question was—from archeology to zoology. “Google it, Mom.”
So she did. She tapped on the multicolored “G” app icon, which she hardly ever used. Her thumbs twitched on the digital screen keys until she managed to type out “How to shoot a shotgun.”
A whole bunch of videos popped up. She tapped on the first one, but then the trunk filled with sound. She clutched the phone to her chest and hissed at it, “Hush!” Her fingers pressed madly at all the side keys until the thing got quiet again.
Shit! Did he hear that? Then the car went over some kind of rut, and her head banged the ceiling again. It hurt like hell, but she ignored it. Focus!
She brought the phone back up to her face, nearly touching the screen to her nose, and squinted at the video that was already running. She carefully keyed the volume up just barely enough. A man in some sort of hunting garb was holding a gun like the one right there in front of her. He smiled and pointed at all its strange parts.
“The standard twelve-gauge shotgun is one of the simplest, and most effective, home defense firearms. Even a child or a housewife can use it...”
Jenny’s eyes were like saucers as she watched. She swallowed hard and prayed as the car seemed to pick up even more speed—racing faster to the end of something horrific.
“Hurry up!” she commanded the phone. But unlike her, the man in the video had all the time in the world.
Oh God....
Chapter Thirty-Nine
At the naval submarine base in Groton, Connecticut, a six-ton dump truck packed with wet sand smashed right through the main gate.
It didn’t matter that the rolling iron fences had been closed and locked or that the bright orange, water-loaded car-bomb barriers had been dragged into place. The gate itself, constructed of concrete, with three wide lanes and a twenty-foot-high green-tile roof, had been designed for its guards to check credentials rather than weather a full-on armored assault.
By the time it happened, the base had gone into its highest alert. But it was well after
midnight, and the sailors, who moaned and rolled from their bunks, dragged their fatigues on and picked up their rifles, assuming it was just one more tiresome active-shooter drill. After all, this was Connecticut, not Kabul.
One mile northwest of the gate, where the nuclear subs rolled in the wash of the Thames River, snug in their pens like whales in repose, things were a bit different. Just off the pens to the east were the hardened bunkers of nuclear warheads and Polaris missiles, and their round-the-clock guards had received a call directly from Naval Special Warfare in Quantico.
This was no drill, they were told. Enemy action of some kind was imminent. However, the naval armorers and Marine Corps FAST leathernecks were ordered to remain in place. They were to stay on station at all costs, to stand and fight. Only a single navy lieutenant from Security Forces had scrambled his stand-by team of eight men and two women and rushed to the main gate.
From exit 86 off I-95, the ride was just over two miles. The dump truck, driven and manned by two North Koreans who, up to that minute, were sure they were doing Kim Jong Un’s bidding, picked up steam again as it hit Route 12 and was soon doing a mile a minute. A hundred yards behind it, General James Collins was driving a black Chevy passenger van, which he’d switched to at a highway rendezvous rest stop.
Seven more Koreans filled the seats, but they were no longer carrying their 9mm MP5s. Now they gripped fully automatic AK-47s and wore combat vests loaded with topped-up magazines of 7.62-mm ammunition, three hundred rounds per man. Collins had ordered them to not wear their caps. He wanted everyone to see their faces, and eyes. And just behind the van trundled a single eighteen-wheeler, its roof removed and replaced with tear-away camouflage netting—its interior walls lined with blankets of Kevlar.
Inside the cargo space a massive, pneumatic, steel-gray Tomahawk launcher hulked. Only three of its four tubes were loaded, but that would do, and its firing system controls had been rewired to an MBITR radio module clipped to Collins’s belt. He’d wanted the Koreans to make it work from his cell phone, but apparently there was no app for that.
Rogue Commander Page 27