Red Chaos, page 37
Reilly gunned the SUV. Maybe because he was now in a car chase, maybe it was the double meaning, but Reilly gave the assassin a name: Bullitt, for the classic Steve McQueen movie. He followed the rental van, making a series of sharp turns, before a right onto 10th NW against the flow of traffic.
Bullitt was five car lengths ahead of him. Reilly had speed, the truck had mass and used it, clipping a Prius on the right and a Lexus to the left. Reilly slowed as he passed between the two cars. Rhode Island was coming up fast—a decision point. Straight, right heading east, or left to the west. It was just like his choice in the hotel.
Honking constantly, he moved past the cars until fifty feet, about five car lengths, separated them. Reilly sped up, betting Bullitt would keep going straight. He was wrong and saw how wrong he was when the van hung a fast left onto Rhode Island Avenue NW, and he was forced through the intersection by a southbound car that blocked his turn.
“Shit!” he exclaimed. Reilly had no room to make a U-turn. He floored the accelerator, waited for three slow-moving cars to pass, and made a left, figuring he’d head south and converge with Bullitt at Logan Circle. At least that was his hope.
As he covered the circuitous route, Reilly pictured the D.C. map and tried to get into Bullitt’s head. He was the best at everything. Disguises and killings. Appearing and disappearing. Walking and flying. Probably now driving. He had an escape plan; he always did. And he had the file.
The Ryder van was likely one of many ways to leave the hotel. The team with him, not as experienced as he was. The woman on the fourteenth floor accomplished more than the others. Thanks to her, Bullitt had what he’d come for, but she paid the price.
And now they were in a road race. Car to van. Reilly assumed Bullitt had to know the Capital streets as well as he did and where he was heading. Which way? he asked himself. Not near the closely patrolled White House, that was already clear by the route. Not north, either. West or southwest.
At that moment he made a sharp turn onto Vermont. One long block ahead was Logan Circle. The white Ryder van was just rounding it. The most direct route out would be to continue on P to Dupont Circle. Thinking like Bullitt, he counted on it. Now he would hang back and keep the van in sight.
Bullitt definitely knew the streets. He drove with real awareness, moving from the left lane to the right, ready to make another turn at the next roundabout.
He eased back on the pedal, believing he had lost Reilly. From the glove compartment, he removed a wig and a mustache, putting both on as he steered with one hand. Next, he wiggled out of his sports jacket and pulled the front of his dress shirt, which separated a Velcro strip in the back, revealing a blue t-shirt. He was partially transformed. There would be more to complete his new identity. He slipped a German passport into a pocket: Gustaf Frederickson of Bonn. He liked to play video games, so he was now a game designer traveling back home from a DC conference.
He practiced saying his name with the correct accent. “Frederick-sin. Fred-rickson. Fred-erick-son.” He had it. The assassin checked his mirrors and shook his head. He entered Dupont Circle at half the speed, ignoring the first four exits and on the fifth split off at New Hampshire.
Reilly saw the turn. He smiled. He was thinking like his objective now. He expected him to make his next move at Washington Circle. He’d either pick up 29 West or continue down New Hampshire and skirt the Potomac on his way to the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. Reilly believed west would be more likely, open and faster.
He sped up once he was on New Hampshire. Bullitt was a block-and-a-half away. Then he saw Bullitt make a sudden turn into a garage on the right between M and L Streets. Reilly slowed and passed it. It looked like new construction. Now a new question. Proceed or wait? At first, he concluded Bullitt had made him. Then again, he might hide in the building. Proceed or wait? He pulled over beside a fire hydrant and turned the car off. He’d give it two minutes, keeping his eye on the passenger side and rearview mirrors.
The man who now called himself Gustaf Frederickson pulled into an open space in the underground lot. This was not his plan. Garages were enclosed. Egress was limited. He was in relatively unknown territory. He hated unknown territory. Unknown territory presented multiple unknowns: people coming out of elevators, mothers with strollers, kids on skateboards, a random police officer. But this was where he was supposed to be for the moment—an order from a plan he did not design.
He didn’t know Reilly’s experience, but so far, his opponent had sensed the threat in the hotel lobby, fought the woman and tossed her out the window, requisitioned a car, and picked him back up after losing him. He had training or instincts or both. This made him a danger—first in China, now in Washington. He wanted to eliminate the danger, but his only objective was to recover the package Reilly carried from China—which he had done successfully—and then escape.
Ryan Battaglio had taken the stairs up from the Situation Room two at a time. He stormed through the hall ignoring everyone who addressed him, impolitely held his hand up to his secretary Lillian Westerman, who was absorbed in the senate hearing on TV, barreled into the Oval Office, and slammed the door.
“Fuck!” he shouted. Too much was happening at once, and he didn’t have enough people loyal to him in key positions. He’d acted too slowly. He vowed to fix that immediately. The void was costing him, especially now with the crisis in the Atlantic. At first the Pentagon had ID’ed Russia. Now they believed it was an Iranian plot. Jesus, make up your minds, he said to himself. People. Yes, I need my people. Better ones, he thought, than even Roger Whitfield, who was proving himself a useless National Security Advisor. Davidson! He wanted Moakley Davidson by his side to manage and control the fucking military.
Battaglio hit the intercom button. “Get Senator Davidson in here now,” he demanded.
“Mr. President he’s still …” she paused to find the right description. Answering questions wasn’t accurate enough. “Testifying, sir. It’s on TV now.”
For the past hour she’d watched Moakley Davidson respond with a succession of “I have no recollection … I don’t know … I will have to check my notes.” Most of the senators on the Vice Presidential confirmation committee, no matter their party affiliation, waived their time to Littlefield. Two close Davidson allies constantly tried to interrupt with their objections. They were gaveled down by the chair. When their time came to question, they returned to the original agenda: laudatory statements and softball questions. Battaglio tuned in to the last few minutes of the round.
It all appeared pro forma to the president. High praise and talk of his patriotism and service to the country. He concluded Davidson would be approved by the committee by the end of the day. Then came Senator Mikayla Colonnello’s opportunity at the microphone.
“Senator Davidson …” She smiled.
“Yes.”
“Just one question, after which I’ll yield the rest of my time to Chairman Littlefield.”
Davidson smiled defiantly.
“Are you responsible for the death of The Hill reporter, Sherwood Baker?”
The Kennedy Caucus Room erupted. One hundred-fifty-two voices speaking as one. And under the cacophony, Davidson told his aide, “Get me out of here!”
75
OFF THE COAST OF NEW ENGLAND
The true firepower of the United States, unknown to the general public, was at the fingertips of Admiral Branson Stuckmeyer, commander of the 2nd Fleet. It wasn’t the largest complement of ships in the Navy, but because it had America’s homeland to protect, it had some very special tools.
“Steve, this is a big job.”
“Yes, sir.”
The orders from Admiral Grimm, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, to Admiral Stuckmeyer were clear and unequivocal. “Kill those damned torpedoes!”
“Yes, sir.”
Stuckmeyer had a wide array of acoustic weaponry and the ability to trigger mines tethered to the ocean bottom. He’d use those and another tool. Budgeted in 2020, tested under the cloak of secrecy, and now in his fleet’s arsenal—the Navy’s anti-torpedo torpedo, an Anti-Torpedo Torpedo Compact Rapid Attack Weapon (ATT CRAW). The weapon is an interceptor with sonar-seeking capability and a guidance package that allows it to make precise movements. It lives to kill before a torpedo can take out a super carrier or destroyer. It can ram an oncoming torpedo or detonate an explosive warhead in its path. The ATT CRAW replaced a previously failed system and was, so far, “in development.” Admiral Stuckmeyer had them at his disposal, ready to be launched from tubes on his fleet’s ships or from airborne drones.
The tactical challenge was distance, operating within a kill chain short enough for the interceptor to be effective. The defensive system must first locate and classify the threat, then deploy within a very tight time period. And to be successful, it has to be close to the target.
The report from USS Hartford provided the trajectory. Sonar buoys along the way confirmed that they were on course. What surprised Stuckmeyer and the entire Navy command was the range of the torpedoes. Considering the distance they’d covered so far, he had to assume they could make it all the way … and all the way was a great deal closer now.
He gave the command. Fifteen drones went aloft from the USS Harry S Truman. The destroyers readied their ATT CRAWs. Sonar operators listened. They made contact. The first two torpedoes were taken out by the mines. The resulting churn threw another off course. It connected with an undersea boulder and exploded before it could right its course. Three down, three to go.
Further in, an ATT CRAW from one of the fleet’s Ticonderoga-class ships made a head-on hard-kill. Four down, two to go, and only miles to the New England shore, where pleasure boats leisurely sailed and oil tankers queued up for off-loading.
It was going to be up to the drones.
76
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The man who now called himself Frederickson steered head-on into a spot two levels down. He turned the van off, exited, unlocked the rear panel, and climbed in. One minute later, he sat atop a BMW S1000R sport bike, wearing a black leather jacket and black helmet. Inside his jacket, a Heckler & Koch USP9 tactical semiautomatic pistol.
Frederickson, or whoever he was about to become, flipped the visor down, gunned the engine, and flew off four feet forward and two feet down onto the garage floor. Seconds later, he was at the gate, passing between the security arm and the pedestrian walkway and screaming out onto New Hampshire Avenue.
With an eye on his rearview mirror, Reilly had little doubt who was charging down the street on the BMW. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. Damn! he thought. He should have tried to take him inside the parking structure. Now he had to keep up with a motorcycle that could weave in and out of traffic, split lanes, and outrun him.
He threw the car into drive, picked up the chase, simultaneously pressing his cell call button. “Siri, call Bob Heath.”
“Calling Bob Heath.”
While it dialed and rang, Reilly dodged around a biker and just barely made it through a yellow light. It didn’t appear as if Bullitt knew he was being followed, but that would soon become obvious if he merged onto 29 West after a quarter turn around Washington Circle.
“Hey brother, wondering when you’d be back.” The CIA officer was light and breezy.
“Need help!”
Heath picked right up on the tone. “What’s going on?”
“Pursuing subject presumed to be the killer of the oil execs and nearly one other,” Reilly said over the speaker.
“Who?” Heath asked.
“Me.”
“Where are you?”
Reilly told him, though he didn’t need to. Heath was already typing in the phone number. The agency could track him in real time.
“I’ll get you help. Don’t do anything stupid on your own.”
“Too late for that.”
“Then at least don’t hang up. I’ll find you!”
Reilly swung wide around Washington Circle. Bullitt was on course. From here he’d take the Francis Scott Key Bridge across the Potomac.
“The business at the Kensington?” Heath asked.
“Yup.”
“Okay, we’re getting an airship up. What are you driving?”
“Mercedes SUV. Grey. Don’t know the plates. I borrowed it. Probably reported as stolen by now. Do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Get me off the most wanted list.”
It was too late. He heard the siren before he saw the car in his rearview mirror—a Metropolitan Police Department Ford Police Interceptor—all white with red stripes, a single blue strip, and the motto painted on the unit, “We are here to help.”
He, or she, was not going to be a help today.
“Got MPD coming up fast on my tail! Get him off me! He’s going to blow everything.”
“Why?”
“The assassin stole something from me. It’s urgent I get it back. Me and no one else.”
“Jesus, Reilly. What did you get yourself into?”
“A mess. Now flag that cop off.”
“I’ll try. Sometimes they don’t listen.”
Reilly heard typing. Heath said, “Putting you on hold.”
The motorcycle sped up. Reilly was just 200 feet behind him. But the police cruiser was gaining on him. All three made the turn to the bridge.
Traffic moved slowly. The motorcycle moved quicker. Reilly decided at least for the time being, he’d use the police siren to his advantage. He honked. D.C. drivers, used to diplomatic caravans and police escorts made way. He whispered thanks to the cop, but still hoped Heath would make him go away.
Two new options off the southbound bridge: North Fort Myer Drive would take them east through Arlington. A right turn onto the off-ramp would lead to the northbound George Washington Memorial Parkway. North, he thought. Open road, especially at this hour. Faster. Faster to where?
Reilly was right again. Bullitt wanted out of the District.
“I’m back,” Heath said. “Still working it. They don’t like the CIA telling them what to do. I’ve gone a little higher. In the meantime, air support’s up.”
Reilly leaned in and looked up through the windshield. He didn’t bother to ask what support meant. But it damned well better have some firepower.
Moakley Davidson indignantly stormed through the hall, network reporters and video cameras and following him. Journalists livestreamed with their cell phone cameras. Reporters yelled questions, all of which he ignored.
“Senator Davidson, what do you know?” “Are you involved in the murder?” “Were you there?” As he got further away, only individual words penetrated. “Murder. Evidence. Reason. Surprise. Statement?”
Capitol Police opened the exit door to the office building. Davidson got into a waiting town car. Reporters continued relentlessly, pressed up to the windows until the driver took off.
President Battaglio wasn’t the first to scream, “Fuck!” in the Oval Office, but he was probably the loudest in years. Four members of his Secret Service rushed in from the outer office and the Rose Garden.
“Sir? Are you all right?” the senior agent asked.
“Out!” he demanded.
“Are you sure, sir? We heard you—”
“Scream. Damn straight. The President isn’t allowed to scream?”
The agent nodded to others. “Of course, Mr. President.” They backed out.
Battaglio buzzed his secretary. “I don’t care how you do it, get Davidson on the phone. Cell, landline, or fucking orange-juice cans.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Lillian Westerman replied.
Battaglio continued to watch the coverage on the bank of monitors against the wall. He saw replays of Littlefield’s grilling, Davidson’s tepid responses, and his rush to escape from the chairman and the reporters. Now the press offered their commentary on the surprise line of questioning by Littlefield and the very direct demand by Senator Colonnello that sent Davidson fleeing. Battaglio could see that Davidson’s appointment was dead in the water. He’d find out what this was all about and withdraw the nomination.
Battaglio paced as speculation from the Capitol Hill press corps worsened. He rushed to Lillian Westerman’s desk. “Put the phone down.”
She was slow to act.
“Put the fucking phone down! Forget what I said. I don’t want to talk to him. If he calls, don’t put him through. Not today. Not ever!”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“And get me the press secretary.”
“Sir?”
“Now! I’m putting out a statement!”
Battaglio returned to the office. He’d leave Davidson to the sharks.
77
FREDERICKSON LOOKED BACK. For some reason the siren had stopped, the police car had peeled off. Best of all, he was pulling away from the Mercedes. It had become more difficult than it should have been. He felt he would have done better if he’d gone it alone—quicker, cleaner, fewer moving parts. But he hadn’t plotted this mission. He was simply dropped into it at the last minute. He wanted to get back to Norway after China, relax, and take time off. But the money was too good to pass up, and the client didn’t take no for an answer very well. He’d been promised a no-kill, grab-and-go mission. It was supposed to be easy. Others would do the heavy lifting; he just needed to leave with the package.
Amateurs, he thought. Easy? Right. It would have been if I’d planned it.
He checked his mirror. The lights were smaller, but his pursuer was still pursuing. He considered slowing, engaging, and ending the nonsense. But now he had a lead that increased every minute. The motorcycle vs. the car. The motorcycle was winning. He’d done his job. Time to get to the exfil point and leave.
