Patriot

by A S Bond

“I guess. “ Scott sighed and made a minute correction to the helm. “Is that what we’re doing with this thing?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know I can’t go home at night to the news of a third incident, knowing maybe I could have done something to stop it, you know?”

  “I know.”

  There was another silence.

  “Are you going to tell me why you dragged me out onto this bucket, then?”

  Scott frowned into the distance.

  “Ready about!” The boom swung heavy and low across the cockpit, forcing Mike to duck and spill some beer as the bow came about and the sail filled again, zig-zagging them across the bay. The gentle swell turned to chop, and spray showered the cockpit every so often, as the little boat butted into each small wave.

  “We don’t get too long at this time of year,” Scott said, nodding at the already reddening sky. “MI6 found Maynard.”

  It took Mike a split second to catch up. “And?”

  “He’s involved with your man, Hassan. They’ve got evidence. Of sorts.”

  “Christ! We’re talking to the Iranians!”

  Scott explained what the file contained.

  Mike said, “We’ve had another attack in Afghanistan using that weapon since that intercept. That could be the Phase Two they were talking about. Who knows how many more phases there are to come?”

  “I don’t think that’s the end of it,” Scott said. “I have a bad feeling that it’s just the beginning....but to find that out, we need to start on a full investigation, and David’s file could be just the thing. Either Roberts on the NCIX Board or Vernon at Langley would take it up to score points in the D.C. two-step.”

  Mike said, “You think so? We don’t know for sure it’s Maynard talking to Hassan at this point.”

  “Taken with the photo and the other weapons evidence, it’s enough to start asking the right questions. It’s enough to flush out whoever is blocking me on this.”

  “Assuming that is what’s happening, cornering them like that is a dangerous tactic; you’re forcing them to take action.”

  “I’m forcing them to get out of my way or risk revealing themselves.”

  “It’s risky.”

  “This whole thing is risky! Who stole my phone? Why is the Administration so against my investigating Maynard?”

  “I know this is some serious shit, but it’s bigger than us now. We’re just minor desk officers.”

  “Not that minor.”

  Mike conceded the point with a small shrug. “I’m a tech guy. No one listens to my opinion on strategy.”

  “So where do we take it? Don’t you think it’s strange that Vernon and Roberts - and, by extension Johnson at Defense and Shackleton, - are all singing the some tune on this?”

  “They could all be getting played.”

  “I have thought about that.” Scott told Mike what he had discovered about Maynard’s leverage over the president in New York.

  “So the president’s dirty?

  “Definitely a little grubby, but who isn’t in D.C.? The problem is, it might be worse. Maybe leverage turned to collusion.”

  Mike looked at Scott, dumbfounded. Scott continued, recounting David’s take on the advantage a new front in the war might give a flagging presidency. Mike shook his head, partly in disbelief. Finally, he found his voice.

  “It’s Nicaragua all over again.”

  The memory of the Iran-Contra Affair was a difficult one to shake. The shock of the corruption, the secrecy, the horse-trading behind closed doors with known terror groups, exchanging American hostages for weapons, had made an indelible impression on many men their age. Mike reached unsteadily for something solid to hold onto, and not just because the little daysailer leaped and bucked with renewed life in the freshening breeze. “Tell me our president is not in the Reagan school of strategic denial.”

  “There’s a difference between a politician taking advantage of the incident and being involved in planning it.”

  “That’s what Reagan said about sending Hezbollah money to the Contras, wasn’t it?”

  “True, but as we know, secrets like that don’t stay buried - it’s too much of a risk. Maybe this president is being played, by his buddy Maynard.”

  “So the president is either a traitor, or a dumb schmuck? I don’t buy it.”

  “No.” The mainsail shivered and drooped a little, so Scott tightened the sheet.

  “Maybe not. But why is Maynard being protected, and by whom? And don’t you think it’s a little odd that the senator most influential in the drawdown policy dies in a freak riding accident?

  “You think that’s a part of it? Hell, I suppose it might be.” Mike’s eyes ran sightlessly around the bay, and Scott could see that his old friend was processing everything.

  “The question is, is it coming from inside the administration?” Scott said.

  “I don’t know, but...”

  “You got a suggestion?”

  “Well...” Mike paused. “Obviously I cannot take any part in this, but you’re in counterintelligence, why not get Sugar Grove involved?” Sugar Grove was one of the covert listening stations, based in Virginia.

  “I’ve been warned off taking this any further. Any orders I gave there would be countermanded.”

  “I know, but it’s not in the purview of the Pentagon directly, it’s NSC business, so let’s use the lack of interagency coordination to our advantage.”

  “You mean by the time it gets flagged up to the right people, I’ll have some evidence?”

  “Exactly. It’s a risk, of course. They might not find anything, and you’ll get canned. “

  “Maynard’s dirty, we know that.”

  “Then let’s do some eavesdropping, and who knows, we might also find out who’s his contact in the Administration. We don’t have enough right now for forcing anything from anyone.”

  Chapter 25

  Sugar Grove was part of the top secret signals intelligence collection system known as ECHELON. The collection and analysis were done on behalf of the U.S. and four of her key allies, known to Scott and everyone else in intelligence as ‘Five Eyes.’ It was part of a network that spanned the world, with stations in New Zealand, Cyprus, Washington State and the UK. They had all listened in on commercial satellite communications, quietly gathering political and diplomatic intel, since the 1960’s. Built out in the Shenandoah Mountains, the Sugar Grove site was remote, sheltered by Appalachian forests and only visible from the air or, ironically, satellites.

  Direct access to Sugar Grove was not normally part of Scott’s role. Giving orders to them for surveillance definitely wasn’t. Scott thought about how to draw as little attention as possible to his actions, as he rode the Metro out to the Pentagon the next morning. Shaheen Patel, his immediate superior, was on leave. He had been for several weeks now, with ongoing cancer treatment. Rumor was he wouldn’t be coming back, which meant a probable promotion for Scott—if he didn’t screw up. He sighed and checked his messages for the fifth time since leaving his apartment. Still nothing from Brooke.

  The train slid quietly into the station and Scott joined the smartly dressed crush at the exit, following the pack as it swelled up towards the light, dazzled briefly by the sunlight until he entered the grim concrete hallways of the Department. He hated spending his days in here. Well, that was something he wouldn’t have to worry about if he got caught. The thought put a wry smile on his face for a moment.

  “Scott!”

  He adopted an appropriate frown of concentration and turned around. It was Vince Tomasso from down the hall.

  “Meeting in ten! Did you forget?”

  “What? No.” Scott shook his head. “I’ll be there.”

  Damn, he didn’t have much time. The interdepartmental strategy meeting would take most of the morning. It had to be now. Moving quickly, Scott unlocked his office and, closing the door firmly behind him, drafted a memo to the operations supervisor at Sugar Grove, requesting surveillance and inte
rception of all known communications to the U.S. on the number David had intercepted from Hassan.

  Scott looked at his watch. Five minutes. He should be on his way up there now. Haste made him clumsy as he rifled through the stacks of papers on his desk, looking for something with Patel’s signature on it. He stopped and took a deep breath. Then, he slid out a personal note Patel had sent to him soon after he went on leave. Scott looked at the signature. The p was big and looped, the l similarly so. The rest was barely a squiggle.

  Frowning in concentration, Scott traced the shape to get the feel of it, and then tried it again, using his eyes only. He inspected the results. Not bad. A few more practice runs and he was pretty confident. He just hoped the supervisor out in Virginia wasn’t a good friend of Patel’s. It was a chance he would have to take. The reply needed to come straight to him, so he used his own line to send the message; he could explain that away, if necessary, as Patel’s deputy.

  Scott fed the paper into the fax and waited impatiently as the machine beeped and shrilled at him. Then it was gone. Scott gathered up the memo with the practice signatures and pushed it all through the shredder. Picking up his unopened briefcase, he hurried down the hall, locking his office carefully behind him.

  The meeting gave Scott little chance to think about Hassan or Maynard, but it was over by lunch, and he hurried back to his office, sliding away from the chatting groups making their way to the cafeteria on the lower level. He didn’t have time for pleasantries today.

  The confirmation was waiting in his office. Scott scanned it quickly, noting the name and direct line number of the responsible officer, then fed that too into the shredder. He glanced at his watch: Time for a break. He desperately needed some fresh air; the walls of this place were beginning to close in on him.

  Chapter 26

  Dex had no choice but to stay in the shadows at the base of the cliff as he watched Brooke disappear underneath the jetty. He realized immediately what she planned to do, but there was no way he could follow, and he couldn’t see any other way of getting onboard that ship. Brooke, he was starting to realize, was a very determined woman.

  The minutes passed as he stood there, his eyes watering from staring at the brightly lit ship in the darkness. There were no clues as to how many men may be on board. A movement on the middle deck caught his attention. He squinted, but the lights made shadows seem even more impenetrable. Was that a guard? No. Then he saw Brooke stand and look up the ladder. His heart raced as he watched her climb the ladder and slip inside the bridge. He could see nothing to indicate the boat was occupied, so he waited.

  Two minutes later, Dex realized he’d been holding his breath when heard himself gasp out loud. Brooke flung herself down the ladder to the middle deck, and Dex counted five or six men appearing from all parts of the ship. One she quickly flipped over the side rail, head first, sending him into the danger zone between the ship’s hull and the jetty. Dex barely glanced at the black water, his eyes never leaving Brooke.

  She had a head start on the men racing towards her along the deck from the bow. The sound of their boots thudding loudly on the deck was clearly audible in the night. A shout came from somewhere on the upper deck, and Dex feared they would simply shoot her on sight. He spotted the man in the stateroom before Brooke did and realized instantly she had no chance. Dex watched, feeling helpless, as she fell. When he saw the blood on her face, he almost cried out.

  Tortured by indecision, Dex took a risk and crawled through the shadows until he was closer to the end of the jetty, trying to hear what was being said onboard. He saw Brooke dragged away by her hair, and the sight of such brutality and her bloodied face caused him physical pain. Every part of him wanted to run on board, grab one of those guns and...Dex took a deep breath. Brooke was relying on him -a lot of people were relying on him - and joining her as a prisoner on that ship would help none of them.

  Brooke was gone, inside the ship, and a single guard stayed on deck, pacing the length of the vessel. He was armed with what looked like some sort of pistol. Dex was no expert on handguns, and he wasn’t close enough to see clearly. A gun was a gun. These guys were not playing.

  Dex stayed in the shadows, agonizing over his next move. Brooke’s best hope now was that the ship was stopped as soon as possible. He needed to move fast. The tide was about to turn, and if the Marie Louise was leaving tonight, it would be soon.

  Dex continued to watch as men loaded boxes from the dockside, stowing them on deck. All were armed. They moved with a kind of well-disciplined energy that suggested their minds were on a higher purpose, and the work was completed largely in silence, apart from the occasional barked instructions from a man who appeared to be some sort of foreman. He was the only one wearing a parka against the chill of the night, the fur-lined hood pushed back as he stood on deck and surveyed the loading with small, darting eyes set deep into a face mostly hidden by a large beard. He was also the only one carrying an assault rifle.

  Dex confirmed his original guess of five other men; of the two scientists and Maynard himself, there was no sign at all. All this activity meant there was no opportunity for him to get onboard, so he crouched behind a rock about twenty feet from the rearing bow of the yacht, and waited.

  An hour or so later, a steady whip-whop noise grew louder. Was it the engines? He listened carefully. Definitely not the ship. From his vantage point between some rocks down in the cove, Dex could see very little beyond the jetty, just sea and a patch of sky. The noise became deafening and lights swirled overhead, making him duck down as low as possible into the shadows. A helicopter. The lights moved on and the noise lessened slightly as the chopper passed over the cove.

  He sat up again and leaned cautiously away from his hiding place. No one onboard the ship seemed worried, and he followed the lights as they filtered through the trees. He guessed the chopper would land in, or near, the mine area. It was almost certainly the escape route for Maynard himself, he guessed. But whatever the cargo, the helicopter rose again within minutes and flew overhead, heading south.

  Just as his legs were screaming out to move, the yacht’s engines started up. Knowing his only chance was close, Dex leaned forward, panting slightly, despite the chill. It seemed darker now, and he saw that all the stars were gone. A strengthening breeze carried with it the whisper of voices from inside the ship. Was that a woman he heard?

  The dockside lamps were extinguished as the final rope was thrown onboard, followed by the last remaining man, who ran up a second gangplank that had been lowered onto the aft deck. Only one other man was visible: the guard who paced the outside decks. Dex waited for him to pass around the bow onto the outboard side, desperately hoping for an opportunity before the seaman appeared from the loading area.

  The main gangplank would be going up any moment.

  Dex took a deep breath and ran forwards, onto the newly darkened jetty. He hoped his movements in the shadows would be missed by anyone onboard, who would be blinded by the ship’s running lights.

  He was right. No yell came, no shots spat into the wood around him. He paused opposite the gangplank for an instant, hearing the footsteps of the seaman as he climbed the ladder from the lower deck. It was now or never. Concentrating on the thought of Brooke, bound and hurt somewhere on the ship, Dex dashed forward.

  Three steps took him across the gently vibrating ramp, the noise of his running feet disguised by the heavy throb of the engines. There was no choice in which way to go, and Dex turned away from the stern and made for the prow deck, where a tarp covered the the last of the boxes. He reached them and rolled under the nearest flap of canvas in one move, just as the guard turned the corner down by the stern and joined his associate.

  They spoke a few words, then they lifted the gangplank and secured it in place. The sound of the engine changed, as the yacht reversed away from the cove, out into the inhospitable North Atlantic Ocean.

  Dex lay as still as he could underneath the tarp, which smelled of fuel. There was
a pause, then he felt the yacht change into a forward gear and he realized they were motoring away from the coast. Almost immediately, the deck began a slow ocean roll underneath him, and a light rain began to patter onto his shelter.

  Where they were destined, Dex had no idea. But wherever it was, Brooke was no longer alone.

  Chapter 27

  After that first night spent on the hard deck, with only the dirty tarp to protect him from the rain, Dex knew he had to figure out a way to survive onboard the Marie Louise. Survive and not get caught.

  As dawn broke, Dex realized immediately that it was not going to be a short trip. They were obviously far out at sea—blue water cruising, the brochures called it. Dex shivered as he cautiously lifted a dripping flap to peer over the guardrail. This was no cruise. The early morning light revealed no sign of the Labrador coast; only a gray ocean, heaving slowly and monotonously into the distance.

  Dex couldn’t tell where the cold sea met the sky; the only solid things were the occasional icebergs, some the size of a house, opaque white and studded with rocks, or streaked with translucent turquoise. Winter was on the way.

  Dex refused to let himself dwell on his decision to follow Brooke onto the ship. He’d done it, and he’d do it again in the same circumstances. He just hoped that Claude would be as good as his word and take the news of their grisly discoveries in the woods to the provincial authorities.

  Right now though, he had more pressing problems, such as getting something to eat, somewhere to hide that wasn’t soaking wet, and finding Brooke.

  And since they were now at sea, the bearded foreman clearly didn’t think it was necessary to post a guard on deck. Dex scanned the main living quarters and the bridge from his viewpoint in the bow. There was no movement inside or outside, but the tinted glass of the bridge shielded all activity up there. Any number of hostile eyes could be watching without being seen themselves.

  Realizing that he wouldn’t be able to leave his cramped hidey-hole until after dark, Dex tried to assess what lay around him. Under the shelter of the tarp, a number of crates were lashed to the deck. By crawling on all fours, Dex found he could move between the some of them without being seen from above. Kneeling painfully on the hard deck, he pulled out his penknife and began to pry open the nearest one. The wooden slats were screwed together, so it was a long and laborious task to loosen every screw with his small blade. Every so often, the knife slipped, and his hands were slick with blood.