Treason, page 13
42
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
Nightfall was creeping across New England as Steve Kaufmann sat at his desk in the Curtain Labs building, staring at his computer display. His fingers rested on the keyboard, his thoughts wandering. A few hours ago, they had decapsulated every microprocessor chip on the navigation circuit board, confirming what they suspected. The chip that melted had been modified from the approved engineering sample. Agent Lyman, still by his side, had informed him that NCIS was opening an investigation into the company that manufactured the microprocessor. But the onus was still on him to find a solution. No one knew the navigation software or circuit card design better than he did.
Unfortunately, the Russian implementation had been flawless. Had they simply locked out the chip after sending the updated navigation coordinates, Kaufmann was confident he could have found a way to break the cycle, allowing the chip to accept additional updates. But the Russians had overclocked the chip, generating enough heat to destroy itself. Without that chip, there was no way to override the Russian command after it was received.
Suddenly, a solution dawned on him. He hit himself on his forehead. It was so obvious. The answer had been in front of his nose the entire time.
Agent Lyman noticed the eureka gesture. “What’s up?”
Kaufmann explained the potential solution to Lyman, who pulled back with a skeptical look.
“Yeah, that could work,” she said. “But…” She pulled her cell phone out and called Agent Gililland, who arrived shortly with Director Mascarenhas.
After Kaufmann explained his proposal, Gililland asked Lyman. “Will it work?”
“It should,” Lyman said, “but it’s unconventional.”
“I’ll say,” Gililland replied. He turned to Mascarenhas.
“If Steve says it’ll work, it’ll work,” she said.
Gililland retrieved his cell phone from his jacket and punched in a number. After explaining the situation twice, being put on hold afterward each time, he was connected to someone even higher up the food chain—Secretary of Defense Bill Dunnavant. Kaufmann listened as Gililland explained the proposal yet again, then hung up.
He turned to Lyman. “Take Kaufmann home to pack. We’re taking a trip.”
“Where to?” Kaufmann asked.
“Washington. You’re briefing the president at 8 a.m.”
The blood drained from Kaufmann’s face.
Lyman said, “Now don’t tell me you’ve never briefed the president before.”
“That’s not funny,” Kaufmann replied.
Lyman placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”
43
KRASNODAR KRAI, RUSSIA
Christine woke to find the cabin illuminated by weak morning light filtering through the forest canopy and rotting roof. She was still sitting against the wall, her head nestled against Kalinin’s chest, his arm around her. She looked up at him. Kalinin caught her movement and met her gaze.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he said quietly, then grinned.
Christine extracted herself from under his arm. “Yeah, right. I bet I’ve never looked better.” She examined herself: her black skirt had made it through without much wear and tear, but her white blouse had seen better days. It was marred with grime from hiding in their hillside recess, and had torn in two places during their nighttime trek through the woods. Plus, her hands were red, stained with Captain Martin’s blood. A couple of leaves and a twig in her hair would complete the look. She felt around and found one leaf.
She turned her attention to Kalinin, who had his legs sprawled out before him, her eyes going to his ankle. “Have you taken a look yet?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been waiting for better light. We can take a look now.”
Christine gingerly pulled his pants leg up and pushed his sock down. Kalinin had loosened the shoelace but kept his shoe on. His ankle was swollen to twice the normal size, with dark purple bruises.
“Should you take your shoe off?”
“It is best to keep it on. The foot hasn’t swollen and the circulation appears good. Plus, putting the shoe back on before traveling would be torturous.”
“Do you think you broke something?” Christine asked.
“The bones above the ankle are intact. I’m not sure about the foot, but the lack of swelling indicates nothing is broken. However, I cannot travel without significant assistance. I’ll remain here while you obtain a cell phone. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Christine replied. “I’ll put my expert tree-climbing ability to good use and find a nearby town.”
Kalinin gave her a curious look. “I did not mean to insult your tree-climbing ability last night. I did not realize it was a valued skill in America.”
Christine did her best to ignore him.
He opened the backpack and retrieved a package of dry rations and a bottle of water. “You should eat,” he said.
“I can’t,” Christine replied. “I can’t eat when I’m nervous.”
“Drink, then.” He pulled another water bottle from the backpack and handed it to her.
Christine quenched her thirst, then returned the bottle.
“I better get going.” She eyed her torn, soiled blouse and bloodstained hands. “This is going to be a problem.” Even if she found a stream to clean her hands in, there was no way she’d blend in without a change of clothes. Barring a dress in the right size hanging from a clothesline conveniently in her path, like in a Hollywood movie, she’d have to stay out of sight while she stole a cell phone. She grabbed her pistol, then headed out.
“Wish me luck,” she said over her shoulder.
* * *
Christine followed the slope up the hillside, eventually reaching the crest. It was difficult to assess which tree was tallest, as the tops disappeared in the forest canopy. But after convincing herself she’d found the biggest tree, she hid her pistol under a nearby bush, hiked up her skirt, then began the climb. It felt good to be climbing trees again, and her mind wandered as she pulled herself up through the branches.
Her thoughts drifted to her childhood, remembering fondly the times the two Russian moms got together while Christine played with Jake Harrison and his two older brothers. She couldn’t help but smile as she recalled how the older boys always saddled Jake with the girl, whether they were playing board games or running around outside. However, she’d made them regret their choice on many occasions; she was quite fast and remarkably strong for a girl, and no one climbed a tree quicker. Anytime the older boys started chasing her with mischief in mind—handfuls of cow dung they planned to rub into her hair, for example—she’d head for the nearest tree, then taunt them from its highest branches.
In the heat of the moment, she didn’t always think things through. Escaping to a treetop was a good example. The two boys would look up at her smugly; she’d have to climb down at some point. She’d eventually signal to Jake and he’d be obliged to take on his two brothers, keeping them occupied while she slipped down from the tree and sprinted away.
The two older boys took pleasure in ridiculing her. She remembered the many times they’d be playing a board game in the living room while their moms drank tea, and one of the boys would say something disparaging about her. Jake would come to her defense, which usually involved a fist to his brother’s chest. The game would degenerate into the three boys rolling on the floor punching one another. Jake’s mom would look over and yell at them in Russian, the same phrase each time, then return to her tea as the boys kept fighting. Although Jake and his brothers spoke Russian, it took a while for Christine to decipher what their mom said each time, eventually translating it into—don’t hurt the girl.
The girl approached the treetop, breaking through the forest canopy. Christine climbed a few more branches, gaining a clear view of the countryside. A road cut through the forest until it intersected a clearing from which light smoke rose. She surveyed the curving landscape, forming a mental picture to help keep her headed in the right direction once she descended.
Before beginning the descent, she took one last look around. The sun had cleared the horizon and was climbing into a clear blue sky. But a brisk wind carrying the scent of rain whipped through the treetops. In the distance, a dark bank of clouds was rolling in from the Black Sea. She figured she had a couple of hours before the rain hit.
* * *
Climbing down was always tougher than going up for some reason, but Christine eventually dropped onto the forest floor. Upon retrieving her pistol, she headed toward the clearing. She came across a stream, where she rinsed the blood from her hands and cleaned her face. Still, she figured she had rolled around in the barn with Jake for several hours when they were in high school and emerged more presentable than she was now.
After an hour-long journey, the trees thinned and a clearing appeared. Within it was a village, about a dozen buildings, with several homes alongside the road in both directions. The forest had been cleared some time ago and scattered trees had sprouted up, offering cover as Christine approached. One building was noticeably larger than the rest, with smoke rising from a large chimney, accompanied by the smell of pastries. She figured it was the local pub, which should offer an opportunity to steal a cell phone at some point during the day.
Christine reached the back wall and approached a window, then looked inside. The pub was empty. She checked her watch. It was 9 a.m., a bit late for the morning crowd in this neck of the woods and too early for lunch. She moved along the building perimeter, checking another window, spotting a cook in the kitchen, busy preparing food. No cell phone in sight.
As she approached the end of the building, she heard a man talking. She peered around the corner, spotting two men: one carrying supplies from a van into the pub, while the other talked on a cell phone, occasionally giving directions to the first man. She pulled back, deciding what to do next.
She preferred to steal the phone and slip away unnoticed rather than steal one at gunpoint, so she let things play out. The van door eventually slammed shut and the engine started, then faded into the distance. She looked around the corner again and the van and both men were gone. Waiting might have been a bad idea.
Moving back to the window, she spotted the man with the cell phone again. He was working behind the bar, putting supplies away, with his cell phone on the counter. Christine waited patiently and was eventually rewarded. The man went into the kitchen, leaving his phone on the bar.
Christine moved quickly to the front door, slipping her pistol inside the waistband of her skirt, snug in the small of her back. She walked into the pub like she owned the place, heading directly to the bar. As she grabbed the phone, however, the man returned.
When he spotted his phone in her hand, an angry expression flashed across his face. He said something in Russian and moved toward her. Christine retrieved her pistol and pointed it at him. The man stopped and raised his hands, palms out. He spoke again, this time in a conciliatory tone.
Christine retreated, keeping her pistol leveled at him. She had almost reached the pub entrance when it suddenly dawned on her—she didn’t know the phone passcode. She moved forward and placed the phone on a table between them, then stepped back.
“Passcode,” she said.
The man shrugged his shoulders, making a questioning gesture with his hands.
“Passcode,” Christine repeated, tapping the air with her finger several times, then pointed to the phone.
This time, the man moved slowly toward his phone, his eyes on the pistol in Christine’s hand. He energized the phone and tapped in the passcode, which Christine memorized. She waved the pistol at him and he stepped back. After retrieving the phone, she backed away.
When she reached the pub entrance, she turned and sprinted toward the forest, checking over her shoulder occasionally. When she was a few yards inside the tree line, she stopped and looked back. The man had wisely chosen not to follow.
* * *
It took an hour and a half to make it back to the abandoned cabin, finding Kalinin where she left him. She held the cell phone up proudly and smiled, then tossed it into his lap.
“I almost forgot about the passcode. You should have reminded me before I left.”
“Obtaining the passcode goes without saying. You clearly don’t have much experience stealing things.”
Christine folded her arms across her chest. “I clearly need to stop hanging out with you.”
Kalinin dropped the line of conversation. “Let’s call the American president and arrange new transportation, shall we?”
She sat beside Kalinin and entered the phone’s passcode, then Kalinin used the map application to determine their location. Christine checked her watch; it was 3 a.m. at the White House. Instead of the Oval Office, she dialed the president’s cell phone. The call didn’t go through.
Kalinin examined the phone. “It does not have international service. You stole the wrong phone.”
Christine grabbed the phone from him. “I did not steal the wrong phone.”
She opened the phone’s Play Store application, then downloaded and launched a free app. After swiping through several screens, she tapped on a hazy image in the top right corner and a greeting popped up, requesting her user name and password. Christine filled in both fields and pressed Enter, and several icons appeared. She pressed the phone symbol and a man answered.
“Name and verification code?” he asked in a monotone voice.
“O’Connor, Christine Taylor. Access code 851051.”
There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, then the man said, “How can I help you?”
“I need to talk to the president, immediately.”
It took a moment to make the connection.
The president sounded groggy, but his voice cleared once he heard Christine on the other end.
44
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The president entered the Situation Room in the West Wing basement, joining four men around the table: Chief of Staff Kevin Hardison, SecDef Dunnavant, Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Brian Rettman, and Vice Admiral Dusty Rhodes, director of the Navy’s Strategic Systems Programs, responsible for the Trident missiles and their launch systems. Although the CNO and Admiral Rhodes were required only for the second topic of this morning’s meeting, they had arrived at the original 8 a.m. start time as directed.
Following Christine’s middle-of-the-night call five hours ago, the president had set Dunnavant onto the task, directing him to have a rescue proposal by 8 a.m., which they would discuss first.
“What’s the plan?” the president asked.
Dunnavant placed a map on the conference table, showing Christine and President Kalinin’s location, a few miles inland from the Black Sea. “Following the failed Delta Force rescue, we evaluated whether we should just hide Kalinin somewhere inside the country—we have a CIA safe house in Sochi, for example. But the consensus is we need to get him out of the country as soon as possible. We can’t afford to let him fall into the wrong hands.
“Given what happened to the Black Hawks, any new rescue plan must avoid the air. The Russians obviously have capable anti-air assets in the vicinity. That leaves land and sea, and we have the perfect solution. Michigan is in the Black Sea, positioned off the coast of Odessa for potential Tomahawk missile support in Ukraine. She’s also carrying two platoons of Navy SEALs. We’re still finalizing the details, but the basic plan is to send a team of SEALs ashore to retrieve Kalinin and Christine.
“Michigan needs to reposition from Odessa, which will take about a day, and the SEALs will head ashore at nightfall. We’ve considered options to extract them faster, but we think this plan has the highest probability of success.”
The president glanced at the Chief of Naval Operations.
Admiral Rettman said, “If there’s a way to get them out, our SEALs will get it done.”
“Proceed with the plan,” the president said. “Let’s hope for better success this time.”
After Dunnavant acknowledged, the president said, “Let’s move on to the second topic.”
* * *
Steve Kaufmann was one nervous cat, Lyman thought as she watched him pace around the Roosevelt Room. He’d fidgeted in the car during their trip from Ronald Reagan National Airport into Washington, D.C., and his eyes had grown wide as their sedan forced its way through the throng of reporters outside the White House. Despite the administration’s denials, the press had connected the dots between the Trident missile issue and the B-2 bomber crashes, and speculation was rampant. Cameras flashed as Kaufmann’s car passed by in the dawn, as reporters snapped pictures of the unfamiliar White House visitors.
He was wearing an ill-fitting suit Lyman had borrowed from one of her NCIS buddies last night. She’d taken Kaufmann home to pack for the trip, realizing there wasn’t a suit in his wardrobe. His slacks and collared polo shirts were sufficient for Curtain Labs’ casual dress policy, but wouldn’t do for briefing the president of the United States. A quick call to one of the agents assigned to the Curtain Labs investigation had produced the slightly too small suit for the tall software engineer.
Kaufmann returned to the conference table, slumping into his chair between Agent Gililland and Diane Traweek, Curtain Labs’ chief executive officer. Kaufmann tapped his fingers on the folder containing the brief for today’s meeting, which he’d quickly put together before departing Curtain Labs last night. He sat still for only a minute before he stood and started pacing again, pausing to scrutinize President Theodore Roosevelt’s Nobel Peace medal on the fireplace mantel before moving on. Lyman intercepted the nervous engineer on his route around the Roosevelt Room.
