Kilo Option, page 7
She opened the door to the first office on the right, across from the elevators. Chief Petty Officer Llewellyn lay on his face in a puddle of blood, a small black hole at the base of his skull.
“Roy!” she screamed.
9
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
NSA’s Special Operations Division had worked for the past six months under presidential order to try to find the penetration agent in the Pentagon. The roster had been narrowed to eight people, Gerald Isaacs one of them, though he’d not been at the top of the list.
When the official notification came via computer from the FBI that the suspect had disappeared and was probably responsible for the death of a navy lieutenant commander, the entire NSA team, along with a similar group of men at Langley headed by the CIA’s chief counsel, Howard Ryan, were notified. Thus America’s major law enforcement agency and two intelligence gathering organizations went into action. Lewis came down from his office on the third floor.
“What the hell is happening?” he asked Hughes.
“Looks like it’s Isaacs, and he’s on the move.”
“I read the same thing. But have we gotten anything new on the naval officer he killed? Did he work at the Pentagon?”
“No. We thought he might be stationed at Suitland, naval intelligence. But now it looks like Norfolk.”
“Doing what?”
“It’s coming now,” Lane said standing at a printer spewing out the lieutenant commander’s personnel package. “Atlantic Fleet Headquarters, naval intelligence.”
“He must have come up to Suitland for a briefing,” Hughes suggested.
“What was he doing at the Grand Hyatt picking up whores?” Lewis demanded. “At this time of night.”
“Happened this afternoon,” Lane said absently, watching the stream of information the FBI was sending them. “He was probably on his way home, stopped in for a drink. Or maybe he just wanted to get laid. Such things do happen.”
“Spare me,” Lewis said dryly. He looked up at the situation board and stared at the thirty-two satellite images still displayed, a deep, thoughtful expression on his face. “The mole has been flushed. Means our job is finished.”
Lane looked up at his boss. “That might be a little hasty, Ben. We flushed him, but he’s still out there.”
“From this point it’s the Bureau’s responsibility.”
“His agent runner came back with a new assignment that was big enough for him to blow his cover. One dead so far, the bodies could start to mount up.”
“Not our job, William,” Lewis said sharply. “We’re not cops. The last time you went running off, you almost got yourself killed. It’s not what you get paid to do.”
Lane tore off the fanfold still coming out of the printer, separated the last page from the rest, and handed it to Lewis. “Lieutenant Commander Stein worked in naval intelligence at Norfolk, all right. Specifically he was one of Don Horvak’s people, boss of Atlantic Fleet submarines.”
Lewis quickly scanned the information on the printout that identified Stein’s unit assignment, then his eyes strayed to the satellite images on the situation board before returning to Lane. “What’s your point?”
“Six days ago Maslennikov was recalled to Kiev in secret to meet with his boss and a high-ranking Russian intelligence officer. Less than six hours ago Iran’s submarine base at Bandar-é Emn was attacked, maybe by Iraqis, but with the help of a Ukrainian gunboat. That was an attack against a base housing Russian submarines. Now, Maslennikov’s star pupil kills a naval intelligence officer who’s involved in submarine operations. Isn’t all that just a little too coincidental for you, Ben?”
“Like I said, waits your point?”
“I know Isaacs. I came face to face with him at a Pentagon briefing about five months ago. He won’t remember me, but I’ll know him when I see him, no matter what kind of a disguise he’s wearing.”
“The FBI will catch up with him.”
“They won’t know the right questions to ask him.”
“Then you can tell them,” Lewis said, exasperated. “Better yet, you can be on the interrogation team.”
“They won’t catch him in time, because they don’t know where he went tonight, or why he killed Stein.”
“But you do?”
“That’s right,” Lane said. He handed Lewis a copy of Isaacs’s file photo along with the photograph of Lieutenant Commander Tom Stein that the Bureau had sent over. There was more than a slight resemblance.
“Shit,” Lewis said.
Lane sat down at one of the consoles and brought up long-distance information on a telephone line. In twenty seconds he had the number for Norfolk Naval Base Security Operations, and the call went through. It was answered on the first ring. Lane put it on the loudspeaker.
“Base Security, Lieutenant Rowse,” the OD answered. He sounded harried.
“Lieutenant, this is Bill Lane. I work for the National Security Agency. I want you to call me back on AUTOVON so that you can confirm who I am.”
“Look, I haven’t got time to screw around. What do you want?”
“Have you got some trouble up there? Atlantic Fleet Submarine Headquarters?”
“Who the hell did you say you were?” Rowse demanded.
“Lane, NSA. You’ve got someone coming your way who’s going to try to get into your fleet intelligence unit, or perhaps your computer center.”
“Goddamnit,” the lieutenant said. “I’ll have to get back to you, Lane.”
The connection was broken.
Lewis stared up at the situation board again for a long moment. He shook his head in resignation as if he’d just made a decision that ran against his grain, then looked back at Lane.
“We’ll chopper you two down there right now. In the meantime I’ll warn the navy that you’re on the way, and inform the Bureau what’s going on.”
“Tell them not to screw around, this guy is dangerous,” Lane warned.
“Heed your own advice, William. I’ll stay here and backstop you.”
“You’re a pearl of a fellow,” Lane grinned. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
10
NORFOLK NAVAL BASE
Yernin was surprised that his luck had held as long as it had, although he was professional enough not to be disturbed when it ended. He’d hoped to be able to get off the base the same way he’d got on, without any further bloodshed. But he no longer thought it would happen that way.
He stood a moment longer at the elevator to convince himself that the controls had been locked out and the car recalled to the ground floor before he turned and walked to the stairs. Someone had already discovered the deserted security post and had started to lock down the building. Within a few minutes the entire base could be secured, and getting out wouldn’t be so easy.
At the head of the stairs he studied the door lock and hinge mechanism. Taking a penknife from his pocket, he used the tip of the biggest blade to pry off the small end cap on the left side of the latch bar. As he expected, there were three wires leading from the mechanism back through the hinges and into the building’s wiring. One would be a common ground, the second would activate an audible alarm in the corridor, and the third would light a position on an alarm panel somewhere here in the building, and possibly at a central security center elsewhere on base. The switching system was sealed so it couldn’t be defeated.
There was no other way out except through the air-conditioning ducts, and that would take too long. By then the building would be completely sealed off, the base shut down. His window of opportunity for escape was rapidly closing.
The situation was irritating, for although he did not mind killing, it wasn’t his style to spill blood unless it was necessary. Like a surgeon, his strokes tended to be precise.
Yernin pushed open the door with the briefcase, and an alarm horn shattered the silence, its high-pitched whooping echoing off the corridor walls.
Holding his pistol behind his right leg, he stepped out of the stairway directly into the barrel of a 10mm Colt automatic pistol held by a young man in uniform. Out of the corner of his eye he could read the man’s name tag, SPIRES, and see his face. He was frightened.
“Jesus H. Christ, Spires, you scared the living shit outta me,” Yernin shouted, falling back.
The petty officer hesitated a moment, not knowing what to expect, but definitely not expecting an officer who knew his name and acted as if he belonged here. It was a mistake, and all the opening Yernin needed.
He batted Spire’s gun hand aside, and before the petty officer could react, he brought his own pistol up, jammed it into the young man’s solar plexus, and fired once.
Spire’s body hunched over, a surprised, hurt look coming over his face. “Shit,” he rasped, and he slumped to the floor.
Yernin looked both ways down the broad corridor. No one was coming yet, though the alarm horn blared so loudly it was difficult to keep it out of his mind. But there was still time.
He stared at the petty officer’s body for a moment. The boy was a soldier, but his death was a waste. Already the body count was impossibly high for such an assignment. The military police would demand civilian help, and very quickly every cop on the eastern seaboard would be looking for the killer.
He turned and headed toward the rear exit, checking his watch as he went. He’d been in the building less than ten minutes. It would take base security that much longer to secure all the gates leading off base. Once he got back into the city he could change his identity and lose himself.
No one here who’d seen his face tonight was alive. He meant to keep it that way.
A woman in uniform stepped out of the office across from the elevator where Llewellyn’s body lay on the floor. “Freeze, you sonofabitch!” she shouted.
Yernin stopped short, then half-turned toward the woman. The girl was a petty officer. She held a standard-issue 10mm Colt automatic with both hands, her arms extended, her elbows slightly bent, exactly as she’d been taught to do. She could not have heard the shot, and if she didn’t turn around she would not see her fellow petty officer’s body lying by the stairwell door. Like Spires she was frightened, but there was something else in her eyes. A deep-seated, wild anger. Yernin guessed that the girl and the dead man in the office had been friends, or perhaps something closer.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Yernin said, motioning toward the office, his pistol concealed at his side. He had to shout over the noise of the alarm. “By the time I got to him it was too late.”
A look of uncertainty crossed the young petty officer’s face. Her name tag read DAGEN.
“Look, Dagen, has the building been locked down yet? Who’s pulling OD tonight?”
“Who killed Roy?” the girl shouted hysterically.
“Whoever it was is probably still in the building. And unless you get a grip he’ll get away. Now who’s the OD tonight? I want you to raise him on your walkie-talkie. We’re going to need more people over here on the double.” Yernin started to turn away.
“Damn you, hold it right there! I want to see some ID right now!”
“Okay,” Yernin said. The girl was confused but it wouldn’t last. “I’ll dig out my ID, but in the meantime call your boss, we don’t have much time.”
The young woman hesitated a moment, then shifted the gun to her right hand and reached for the walkie-talkie at her side. She had to look down.
Yernin brought up his gun and fired, hitting her in the chest just below her left breast, her legs collapsing beneath her.
He didn’t think that anyone else would be popping out of the woodwork. Spires was probably the front-door man, and Dagen had been sent over to find out why the back-door guard wouldn’t answer up.
But others were coming, and Yernin decided he was going to have to risk another half-minute to provide himself with a diversion. As long as the initial search was concentrated here, it would divert their attention away from the egress points off the base.
The girl had fallen facedown. Yernin turned her over on her back, then took a brick of Semtex from his case, set an acid fuse for zero delay, and shoved it into the plastique. He set the explosive on the floor and eased Dagen’s body on top of it. When she was moved, the acid fuse would crack and the Semtex would blow.
Using the young woman this way would anger the naval authorities, especially those close to her, but angry people, even professionals, did not think clearly.
A jeep with base security markings on its side was parked opposite the back door. Yernin figured it belonged to the young woman he’d killed. He slipped outside and quickly crossed the parking lot to where he’d left his car in the shadows. He could hear sirens in the distance to the east. It would be base security in response to the alarm. But they were still far enough off that he could make a clean escape.
He tossed the case in the front seat beside him and headed west away from the sirens toward the Hampton Boulevard gate on the opposite side of the base from the gate he’d come through. A block later he switched on the headlights just as a base security patrol car, its lights flashing, came around the corner and passed him flat out in the opposite direction.
He checked his watch. In two minutes the first of the bombs he’d set in the computer center would go off. After that the naval authorities were going to find themselves with a lot of questions that had no immediate answers.
Four minutes later, Yernin came to gate 5 and prepared to stop, his right hand on the gun at his side, but the navy SP merely saluted and waved him through.
Yernin returned the salute and merged with traffic heading south along the motel row that served the base and its visitors, traffic once again picking up.
11
EN ROUTE TO NORFOLK NAVAL BASE
The Sikorsky SH-3L Sea King ASW helicopter touched down on the rooftop helipad of NSA’s main administration headquarters, and Lane and Hughes were hustled aboard and strapped in by a dour-looking navy chief whose name was Paparella.
“You want down there right now, that right, sir?” he shouted over the noise of the rotors as he gave them helmets and showed them where to plug into the chopper’s comms circuit.
“The sooner the better, Chief,” Lane replied, donning the bulky helmet and snugging down his seat belt.
“In that case, hang on,” Paparella shouted. He went forward and strapped in behind the pilot and co-pilot. A moment later the big helicopter lifted off with a sickening lurch. Dipping its nose, it gathered speed, and as it arched to the south, they could see the lights of Washington off to their right.
“When did you meet Isaacs?” Hughes shouted.
“I only saw him once at a briefing,” Lane said. “Ben wouldn’t have let us go if I’d told him the truth.”
“Just great in light of the awful fact that I despise helicopters,” Hughes said, clutching his attaché case to his chest. “These machines fall out of the sky with alarming regularity.”
“Can you swim?” Lane asked his friend.
“If need be.”
“Then you’re in luck, Tommy. Some of our trip will be over water.” Lane found the intercom switch and flipped it. “You guys copy me up there?”
Paparella turned around. “Five-by, sir,” his voice came over their helmet earphones. “You okay back there?”
“Just peachy,” Hughes said, keying his headset.
“What’s our ETA at Norfolk, Chief?” Lane asked.
“Four-zero minutes, sir. We got a good tailwind.”
“Can you raise CMC for me?”
“Can do, sir. Stand by and I’ll bring it up on another channel.”
A minute later Ben Lewis came on the line. “CMC.”
“Okay, we’re in the air,” Lane told him. “Should be touching down in about forty minutes. Did you talk to Bishop?”
“Yeah, and he’s pissed. His people are on the way down. He wants to know when and where you met Isaacs, and why the hell you didn’t log it on an encounters sheet.”
“No time for that now, Ben. Has Isaacs been spotted in Norfolk?”
“Might not be such a good idea sending you down there after all,” Lewis continued. “If Isaacs recognizes you it might give him the edge.”
“I’ll recognize him first,” Lane assured his boss.
“In any event it’ll probably be all over by the time you get there. The navy thinks they’ve got him cornered. I talked to Captain Jensen, chief of Naval Intelligence Norfolk. He says Rowse is a good man, and he’s got a good crew.”
“Where’d they corner him?” Lane demanded.
“Atlantic Fleet Headquarters—”
“Where specifically, Ben? Is it anywhere near Fleet Submarine Headquarters Operations? Someplace where he could get his hands on submarine fleet data? Sailing lists, rendezvous station coordinates? Anything like that?”
“COMSUBLANT’s computer center is there,” Lewis replied. “But navy says the building’s been locked down.”
“Any casualties?”
“They didn’t say.”
“How about diversions? Accidents, explosions, power outages. Anything like that.”
“Nothing like that,” Lewis said. “Jensen would have made a point of it. He said that his people were on top of it. They had an intruder in fleet HQ, and they were taking care of it. Thanks for the help, but no thanks.”
“I’ll stand by on this frequency. I want you to raise Lieutenant Rowse and patch him over to me. He’s probably outside Fleet Headquarters. I have to talk to him before anybody gets hurt.”
“He’s not going to want to talk to you—”
“Just do it. And as soon as you’ve patched him over, call Bishop again and tell him to put every asset he can field down there. Virginia Highway Patrol can help with the roads leading out of the area, and the Coast Guard can watch the bay and the rivers, but somebody’s going to have to cover the airports.”
“He’s still on base.”
“Don’t count on it. He’s had plenty of time to get in and get out with what he came for. I’m just trying to prevent anyone else from getting hurt. One dead lieutenant commander is enough.”
