Great, Ben thought. Aloud, he asked, “Um, I never met anyone like that. Any triggers or issues I need to worry about?”
“Nope. Just roll with it and don’t take anything she says too personally—she calls it precisely as she sees it, no sugar-coating. Oh, and if she has anything arranged in her workspace, don’t mess with it. It won’t set her off or anything; it’ll just distract her.”
“Right,” Ben said, thinking, you just can’t make this shit up.
Conch Inn, Room 118, Marathon, Florida
2323 EST, 17 January
The agents working with Simmons had booked three adjacent rooms, and Lashon and Steve had swept them thoroughly for microphones and cameras. The hotel was mostly vacant in the offseason and a little shabby. However, its single floor and row of rooms made it ideal for security. Ben and Simmons occupied the center room, which doubled as the command center for the group since the rooms on either side provided a screen against any would-be eavesdroppers.
Simmons’s team had gathered in the center room on the notification he and Ben were a few minutes out. He gave the prearranged knock sequence, opened the door, and led Ben inside. The greetings were led by Victoria, who was, to Ben’s great surprise, a beautiful, petite young woman, with pulled-back auburn hair and large green eyes in a heart-shaped face. She hugged Simmons and said in a surprisingly husky voice, “Hello, Peter! I am very happy to see you.” She turned to Ben with a smile. “You are Lieutenant Junior Grade Wyporek?”
“Yes, I am. I am very pleased to meet you. You can call me Ben if you like.”
“Why would I like to do that when your name is Benjamin?” Her smile faded.
“Well, some people like to call me Ben because it’s shorter to say, but I like the way you say ‘Benjamin’ so I would be happy if you called me that.”
A slight smile lit up her face, which Ben thought was one of the loveliest he’d ever seen. “Good. We have been working all day and ordered pizza. Mine is a thin crust with pepperoni and green peppers. Would you like some as well?”
“Victoria, I can’t think of anything I would rather do more right now.”
“That’s good.” She then abruptly turned and walked behind one of the tables, sat and began typing, gazing at the screen.
Ben directed a puzzled glance at Simmons and got a shrug in return. He then turned and greeted the rest of the team. The pizza arrived about 15 minutes later. Ben sat back and munched a piece of Victoria’s favorite while he listened to the team update each other on the events of the past days.
Frankle, the senior member and coordinator of the team, led the discussion. He was the oldest and presumably the most experienced of the group, with graying, close-cropped hair, and a pair of reading glasses perched down on his nose.
“You did well setting up out here; we’re out of sight, but still in the loop,” Frankle said as he sipped a bottle of Heineken. “FBI, DEA, ATF, seems like half the DoJ has descended ‘covertly’ on Key West to assess the threat. So far, they’re all focused on the drugs and bombs, nothing going on regarding either that stealth kit your folks found or the ‘other thing.’” He glanced at Ben.
“He’s read in.” Simmons nodded. “Has the usual turf war kicked off yet?”
“Boy howdy. Our guy says the leads for FBI and the DEA almost came to blows. Bottom line is that the word is out, though not officially, that we bagged two narco-terrorist boats. Also, they are turning over every rock in Miami and Key West looking for contacts and accessories. With the spotlight on those places, we believe we are in a clear spot between them.
“The bad news: that operative you guys nailed on the sailboat got away.”
“What?” Ben nearly choked on a mouthful of pizza.
“Yep. She got a call off before you put her in the bag. Anyway, the marshals who were taking her to lockup got bushwhacked shortly after they left the Coast Guard base. One dead, one 50-50. It seems they may have killed or wounded an attacker, but there was nobody left behind. We got a hit on the biometrics and this gal’s real bad news, an assassin, actual name Valentina Petrova, drummed out of the Russian SVR because she was too psycho even for them. Our 252 opponents attract cross-wired types like her.”
Simmons saw Ben’s face and interrupted, “Don’t panic, friend. Now that she’s graduated to federal cop killer, her face will be everywhere. She knows her only chance to stay alive is to exit this country as fast as she can.”
Frankle nodded. “True. Hell, her own people might have grabbed her just so they can knock her off before she makes any deals. A man can hope, anyway.”
Simmons weighed in again. “She’s connected with that first boat. Any Intel why they took a chance running a load that big? Seems like a big gamble, I mean that loss has to hurt, even for them.”
Frankle nodded. “Yeah, it has people scratching their heads. It may be a rogue element in the organization, or they thought they had the juice in place to keep people quiet.”
Ben piped up, “They may have tested it in dry runs or smaller loads. I’m sure you guys know how lean our coverage in the Deep Caribbean is these days. The hardest part’s getting through the passages, but if they’re radar-masked, they can hide in the commercial traffic. It’s hard enough to see them when they aren’t masked.”
Frankle nodded. “Makes sense. But drugs are you guys’ problem, you and DEA that is. Anyway, they’re on it, so we’re standing off the boat investigation unless there’s overseas work to do.”
“Have they done any testing on the radar masker we found on the second boat?” Simmons asked.
“A little. So far, it’s invisible to the Coast Guard surface and aircraft radars. They plan to run it against high-end DoD models when they start serious testing. It’s spooky. Drugs are nasty, but it’s the other stuff they’re running that scares me.”
“No kidding. OK, let’s talk about our little caper here. Victoria, can you come here, please? We need you to talk about what you found.”
“Yes, Peter,” she said, pushing back from her console and moving to join the group.
“I don’t believe the ETs have departed, or we’d have heard from the labs. That assumes the labs are up and working correctly. That the case, Victoria?”
Victoria stared expressionlessly at Simmons. “No, Peter, LIGO has been down 5.6 hours and Virgo for 14.3 hours during the past five days. That and the possibility of equipment failure and human inattention leads to a joint probability of 0.02387 the alien vehicle has left.”
Simmons nodded. “OK, so there is a 98% chance they have not moved. I…”
“No, there is a 97.613% probability they have not moved,” Victoria corrected him.
“Yes, thank you, Victoria. Ben and I went ashore on Resolution Key because of evidence of human activity. No joy on the ETs, although I think the 252’s looked in there. As far as I can tell, the rest of our aerial surveys have shown nothing positive in the areas we believe the vehicle could have landed. We’re handicapped because we don’t have any baseline imagery for comparison.”
“That’s not true, Peter,” Victoria interrupted. “Besides Resolution Key, there were vehicle tracks on seven other islands among those surveyed. The imagery revealed the tracks were likely from the same vehicle that explored Resolution Key.”
“Interesting,” Simmons said with a slight, contemplative pause. “What does that suggest to you, Art?”
“Our 252 friends are as clueless about where their boat got hit as we are. Do you think they were playing this on the fly? Why do that when they can just push aside anyone they run into? It’s what they always do.”
“Yes, in the Balkans and South America, where nobody gives a shit about a few more bodies. Here, if they knock off innocents, the heat comes down quick and heavy. There isn’t enough bribe money to make that go away. Better to avoid trouble—check on their pre-scouted spots and, when they find one that’s clear, call in once they anchored.” He paused briefly. “That’s too bad, my hopes that the 252s will lead us to the lan
ding site are fading.”
“Mmmm, yeah,” Frankle said, peering over his glasses between Simmons and Bell. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Maybe we’ll be fortunate, and Victoria’s work will produce a definitive answer.” Simmons glanced at the woman and received a nod in return. “However, we have to assume it’s legwork again. Art, please tell me you got hold of the National Park Service stuff.”
“Yes and no. We have the digital form of the most recent survey maps for the area. Many of them are pdf’s, so image comparison won’t give us much. Back to ground-pounding for us.”
“About what I figured. At least the maritime constraint bounds our problem a bit. I suggest we split the load. Tomorrow, Art, you and Lashon take the easternmost four areas here.” He pointed at the larger scale chart. “And our young coastguardsman and I will take the western areas. We’ll be looking for signs of unusual shore erosion, recently flipped wood, anything that points to a micro-tsunami that our visitors would have generated. And we’ll have the ground sensors.”
“Long shot finding anything,” Bell said, entering the conversation.
“Agreed. But we’ll be down to that if Victoria’s efforts don’t bear fruit. Speaking of which, Victoria, once your runs complete and you wrap up your initial analysis, I want you and Steve to pack up your gear and head back to Maryland. We’re done with the UAV surveys, and we’re spread too thin here to provide you two with adequate cover with all the bad guys running around. We’ll hook up again once you’re plugged in back in Bethesda.”
“I understand, Peter,” Victoria replied somewhat sadly. She turned to Ben. “I wish we had more time to work together, Benjamin.”
Ben’s heart jumped. “Well, Victoria, we have a few hours, don’t we? Can I pitch in?”
“No.” Victoria glanced back at the computer work area. “Everything is batch processing right now. However, I read your paper on the SAROPS project that provided the basis of your search strategy. There were several flaws and shortcomings. Would you like me to tell you about them?”
Ben blinked and opened his mouth in surprise, then noticed over her shoulder that Simmons was watching him with a slight smile. He consciously dialed down his ego. “Of course, Victoria. I’m always looking for ways to make progress.”
“Oh, good.” For the next five minutes, she explained everything from a suboptimal choice of prior probabilities to grammar and punctuation errors. When she finished, she asked, “Do you see how you could have improved this?”
“Yes, I do, Victoria,” Ben said, trying to recover from the intellectual beating he just took. “I hope you aren’t disappointed in me, considering I’m not the mathematician you are. Also, there were many demands on my time when I wrote that.” He had to admit ruefully to himself at that point in his Academy tenure he was heartily sick of school and just going for “good enough” on the project. He never dreamed it could come back to bite him with an attractive woman.
“I’m not disappointed.” She nodded. “Very few people are as intelligent as I am. I hope you’re not sad; sometimes, it is hard for me to tell.”
“On the contrary.” He smiled warmly. “You can never go wrong being honest with me.”
“Oh, good. In that case, I like you. Very much.”
“Despite my inferior scholarship compared to you?” Ben teased with a smile.
“I am not bothered by that. You are very handsome and a hero.” She nodded.
“Oh, ah, thank you,” Ben blushed and stammered. “I’m not a hero.”
“I do not understand.” Victoria’s smile disappeared. “You received the Coast Guard Commendation Medal for saving three lives last year, and you just arrested a dangerous criminal.”
Ben had started stammering again when he saw Simmons over Victoria’s shoulder, giving a thumb’s up and mouthing silently, “Take the Win.”
“No, Victoria, it’s my mistake. I just never thought of myself as a hero.”
“Well, you are.” Her subtle smile returned. “Will you tell me about your life as a Coast Guard officer, please? All I know is what I could read in the official records.”
“Certainly.” Ben entered a lively discussion, answering detailed questions for the better part of an hour. Although he enjoyed himself in the conversation with the beautiful, attentive analyst, the effort of ensuring everything he said was logically consistent and idiom-free was very fatiguing. Eventually, even Victoria noticed Ben was flagging.
“You look exhausted, Benjamin. I am tired too. I think it is time we went to bed.”
“What?” Ben sputtered, eyes wide.
“You’re right, Victoria,” Simmons intervened with a grin. “Why don’t you and Steve head to your room and we’ll pick it up again in the morning.” Steve stood up and shuffled to the door, with Frankle and Bell close behind. Victoria stood up and, after checking the monitor for the progress of the model, hugged Ben warmly, which he happily returned in kind.
“I am glad we had time together, Benjamin.” She smiled with a warmth that made Ben’s heart jump again. “Good night.”
Ben stared briefly at the closed door and turned to Simmons. “Holy shit, Doc! I did not see that coming.”
Simmons patted the young man on the shoulder. “A sudden bold and unexpected question doth many times surprise a man and lay him open.”
Ben tilted his head. “Doc, I can’t even guess where that bit of poetry came from.”
Simmons smiled. “Not poetry, Francis Bacon. You know, you’re all right, coastguardsman. Get some sleep. We’ll roll in six.”
16
Reconnaissance—Land
U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Kauai, Gulf of Mexico, 20 nautical miles northeast of Key West, Florida
0722 EST, 18 January
With Kauai down one of her OODs, Sam took the 0400–0800 Morning Watch to give the other duty standers a break. Although it meant rousting up about a quarter past three in the morning, the ‘Four-to-Eight’ was still Sam’s favorite. He never tired of seeing the sunrise at sea. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, but the gradual lightening of the eastern horizon and the first stab of bright fire was rejuvenating, regardless of how tired he was. It also provided the opportunity of practicing the ancient art of celestial navigation in the pre-dawn twilight. He loved the challenge of measuring the altitude of several stars using his treasured Cooke Kingston sextant Bobby Moore had given him as an OCS graduation gift. After his relief, he planned to break out the nautical almanac and trig tables to “reduce” the star sights he recorded to a celestial “fix” he can compare to the GPS readings. Although unneeded in the GPS age, the activity provided Sam with a stimulating connection to the past.
Around 0730, Deffler appeared on the Bridge and walked over to Sam. After saluting, he said, “You wanted to see me, Captain?”
Sam returned the salute. “Yes, Fritz. I heard from Mr. Wyporek that he and Dr. Simmons, and another team of agents, will do land surveys in the Keys today. Can both birds be in the air with Dr. Simmons ashore?”
“Yes, sir.” Deffler nodded. “I can bring Mike Morgan up here to help monitor after the second launch. We’ll need to stagger the launches by at least 30 minutes for setup and to avoid a crunch at the end.”
“That would work out pretty well. The teams’ work start times are about three hours apart. It’ll be standard overwatch flights for both.”
“Good to go, sir. When do you want us airborne?”
“Plan on a 0830 launch for the first bird. Work out a sortie plan with Hopkins—she has the survey schedule—but get up with comms with the land teams to confirm around 0800 that it’s still a go.”
“Yes, sir.” The airman smiled.
Sam noted the spring in the tall airman’s step and voice. “You’re pretty chipper for someone on his fourth day of patrol boat austerity.”
“Like I said, sir.” Deffler held up both hands, and looking at one, said, “Back home, I have snow and cold.” Holding up the other, he continued, “Here, I’ve
got sun, warmth, excellent food, and marvelous company. I can hack sea showers for that any day of the week.”
“Marvelous company? Anyone in particular?”
“Um…” The petty officer looked down at his feet.
“Ah, I see, disregard the question,” Sam said, thinking I need to keep an eye on my OS1—good for her! “OK, let me know if you run into any problems.”
“Will do, sir.” Deffler saluted.
Watching him go, Sam noted the arrival of Lee, going through her preps to relieve him as OOD at 0745. After a few minutes of very diligent preparation—she was relieving her CO, after all—she offered her relief to Sam, who accepted with a smile and returned her salute. He had to admit he was starving, and he knew Hebert stood by to toss on a Western Omelet for him. His thoughts moved inward as he stepped off the sunlit Bridge to head below for his meal.
Although he only decided last night, Sam grew increasingly uncertain about the mission for which he had signed up his crew. He then chided himself for his irrationality. The discovery of the smuggling enterprise had drawn in a host of agents. That was a vast pool of resources available for surveillance and backup. Yet, this advantage could be lost by the reckless approaches the DIA agent seemed inclined to take. Bobby Moore had told him many sanitized accounts of being dropped in the middle of a shit storm by an eager-beaver intel weenie back in his days on the teams. Simmons fit the general description, with the exception that he seemed to drop himself into a shit storm rather than send others to get chewed up. Sam didn’t care that much about the man’s safety. He did, after all, pick Sam’s sorest spot to hit. What worried him was his influence on Ben.
He had no doubts about Ben’s courage or tactical skills. What troubled him was the young man’s lack of experience with this sort of operation. Hoppy had nailed it, as usual, “you aren’t trained for this.” Anyway, not in the soft skills of situational awareness or, more importantly, to recognize when matters were getting out of hand and take a stand. Particularly with Simmons. Sam shook his head to clear these evil thoughts. The comforting routine of the cutter underway helped, but did not vanquish the lingering undercurrent of worry he felt for his young friend and protégé. A couple more days, then we’ll be done, he thought. By then, someone in authority would wake up to this nonsense, and they could return to their regular job.
Engage at Dawn: First Contact Page 15