A Triple Thriller Fest (84 page)

“Good morning, Barry.  How’s Jane and the boys?” said McHugh.  McHugh had a particular fondness for the CSAC staff that had joined in the beginning and drew strength from knowing them on a personal basis.

“They’re great, Admiral.  Barry, Jr., is serving on a tin can in the Seventh Fleet and Johnny just graduated from Annapolis, wants to join the nuclear Navy,” he said, beaming.  “Jane is just finishing her Master’s degree in social psychology at Rutgers University.  I hope to be topside for her graduation in August.  You ready for a ride?”

McHugh climbed up the ladder into the rather comfortable cabin of
Benthic Ranger One
.  Unlike the older utilitarian
Squid
, the interior of the Benthic Ranger was outfitted with six individual captain’s chairs, three against each side of the vessel.  The front window was rectangular, a triumph of modern engineering.  There was a large porthole at each seat.  The Benthic Ranger was roughly rectangular in cross-section, with a hydrodynamically shaped nose and tail.

Propelled by thrusters and outfitted with lights and television cameras,
Benthic Ranger One
literally flew over the ocean bottom at relatively high speeds.  Except for trim and adjustment for ocean density, the Benthic Ranger did not depend on ballast or blow tanks for buoyancy.  The Benthic Ranger was a shaped hydrodynamic body that depended on the adjustment of vanes and thrusters to gain or lose altitude.  In an emergency, the pilot of the Benthic Ranger could make an emergency dump of its permanent ballast and pop to the surface.

The two Benthic Rangers were also equipped with four wire-directed Mark 48 torpedoes which were externally mounted and fired without propulsion tubes.  McHugh hoped that the Benthic Rangers would never have to defend the Watch Stations.  However, with the events of the last few days, McHugh was glad that Mike and the late Tom Sevson, the genius marine engineer who worked on the discovery of the objects in the seventies and developed many of the systems now in use, had talked him into adding this armament.

McHugh took the starboard seat immediately behind the co-pilot’s seat.  O’Shannon sat in the co-pilot’s seat and Morris climbed into the pilot’s seat after sealing both the transfer sphere and the Benthic Ranger’s airlock.  The whooshing sound, indicating that the hatchway between the Watch Station and the Benthic Ranger was being flooded, could be heard by everyone on the Benthic Ranger.  With a soft metallic clang, the latches of the Benthic Ranger released their grip on the flange of the airlock and retracted into the body of the vessel.

The green heads-up display on the windshield of the Benthic Ranger gave all the vital information necessary for its operation.  Morris turned on the forward halogen head lamps.  The bottom was essentially lifeless with the occasional skeletal remains of some sea creature lying on the sea floor and the tangle of cables splaying out from the Watch Station to various instruments and cameras.  He also turned on the forward scanning sonar in order to see more clearly in order to steer.

Aboard the Watch Station, John Lawrence carefully shuttered the portholes of the Main Control Module before
Benthic Ranger One
began its journey.  This was done to preserve his night vision for the tasks at hand.  After the whirring sounds of the Benthic Ranger’s thrusters faded into the distance, Lawrence unshuttered the portholes.

Elsewhere on the Watch Station, both crews were crowded around the small portholes watching the departure of
Benthic Ranger One
.  In the sterile, dead world of the ocean bottom at 18,000 feet, even the comings and goings of submersibles were major events.

Barry Morris flew the Benthic Ranger like it was an airplane.  Unlike the earlier versions of
Squid
, the Benthic Ranger did not crawl over the bottom like a snail.  The thrusters on the Benthic Ranger were the latest technology.  New lightweight nickel metal-hydride batteries supplied enough power for the Benthic Ranger’s fairly sizable engines.

“Barry, how fast can this go?” said McHugh.

“Admiral, I’ve gotten it as fast as 20 knots,” said Morris.

In a matter of minutes, the Benthic Ranger had completed the circuit around the object.  O’Shannon wanted McHugh to see one more thing.

“Barry, let’s take the Admiral over to the carbon dating site.”

“Aye, sir,” said Morris as he put the Benthic Ranger into a sharp right bank.  The sensation was just like taking a turn in a light plane.  In a few minutes, the Benthic Ranger was over the core drilling site.  Here, robot roughnecks were employed to drill and sample the benthic sediment for more clues on the origin of the objects.

“I read about this project,” said McHugh to O’Shannon.  “Do we have much data so far?”

“So far, Admiral, we’ve been able to calculate the age of the sediment in this area.  As a benchmark we used sediment cores taken near the object and correlated the data to this site.  The top layers of sediment seem to have been deposited after the darker material found more adjacent to the object.  If this data is right, the Sentinel has been here over ten thousand years.”

“That’s very interesting.”

1993: Defection

0930 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Tenth Precinct House, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Bill Sorenson had not been able to sleep for several nights.  Every moment had been spent running over and over the gruesome scene he had witnessed in that old farmhouse south of Mankato.  During those brief moments when fatigue overcame his despair, the slow motion horror of Richard Winslow’s exploding head played over and over again, like a poor quality film loop in a pornographic peep shop.  When those nightmares came, Sorenson would bolt up in bed, screaming, and holding his temples as if the squeezing could drive out the final death scream once and for all.

Sorenson had taken to wandering around Lake of the Isles, thinking, wondering, hoping, pleading that someone could take him out of his nightmare.  He had not bathed in several days as well.  His hair was matted and dirty.  His wife, LuEllen, noticing the terrible change in his sleep habits and his behavior, had expressed concern, but she could get nothing from Sorenson.  Over the course of several days, her concerns had changed to an uneasy wariness.

On this morning, Sorenson found himself walking aimlessly down Hennepin Avenue toward Lake Street.  His thoughts remained jumbled.  What could he do?  As he approached Lake Street, he saw two blue globes out of the corner of his eye, a police station.

Yes, thought Sorenson, I can turn myself in.  That will solve my problem.

“Can I help you?”  The voice of the police sergeant came from behind the high golden oak counter.  Before the police sergeant stood a dazed man with dirty, matted hair, whose clothes were unkempt and who weaved as he stood.

“Yes,” he stuttered.  “I’d like to speak to someone about something.”

“That’s not enough,” said the police sergeant.  “You’ll have to tell me more.”

“I’m a secret agent, I need help.”

God, thought the police sergeant.  Why do I get them all?

“Just sit on the bench there for a moment.  I’ll get someone to help you.”

As Sorenson moved away from the counter, the unmistakable scent of someone who hadn’t bathed in many days wafted over the counter.  The police sergeant picked up the telephone and dialed the detective squad room.

“Pete, I’ve got a live one for you.  He claims he’s a secret agent.  Do you want to see him or should I just get rid of him?” whispered the police sergeant into the telephone.

“Secret agent, huh?  Well, it’s a slow morning.  Why don’t you send him back,” said Detective Sergeant Peter Wilkinson.

A moment later, Sorenson knocked on the door to the detective squad room.

“Come in.  Take a seat,” said Wilkinson, as he put a blank interview form into his typewriter.  “Now what can I do for you?”

“My name is William Sorenson.  My real name is Nikolai Sakurov.  I was sent to the United States to infiltrate your country and to spy.”

“By whom?”

“Russia.”

“How long ago?”

“Ten years.”

“Where do you live?”

“In the James Arms Apartments at 36th and South James Avenue, Apartment 28A.”

“What is your telephone number?”

“436-4009.”

“What do you do?”

“I operate the Lake of the Isles Bicycle Repair Shop in Lowry Hill.”

“How is the security of the United States going to be hurt by a bicycle repairman?”

“You don’t understand, I was sent here in deep cover.”

“What?”

“I said deep cover.”

“Can you explain that to me.”

“My masters have been infiltrating the United States for years, particularly across the Canadian border.”

“Who are your masters?”

“The Soviet military.  They have a program of training spies who can infiltrate a country like the United States.  The committee called this project ‘Cicada’, after the insect by that name.”

“What’s a cicada?” said Wilkinson.

“You know, the insect that hibernates for years,” said Sorenson.  “We’re told to go underground for long periods of time.  We’ve been penetrating the shores of the United States for over thirty years.  We’re trained from youth in special camps in the Urals until we’re indistinguishable from Americans.  We enter the country using either false visas from western European countries or travel through Canada and slip into the United States in such places as International Falls, Minnesota, Vancouver, or Detroit.

“The crossing guards at these stations on the Canadian border do little more than say hello to the occupants of cars.  And when we answer back in a mid-American accent, the guards assume that we’re United States citizens.  Once in the country, we’re instructed to live a modest life, drawing no attention to ourselves.  Often we don’t hear from our controllers for years or even decades.”

“That’s a very interesting story, Mr. Sorenson.  What do you want me to do?”

Sorenson bolted out of his chair.  “You’re the policeman, not me.”

“Now calm down, Mr. Sorenson,” said Wilkinson.  “Please take your seat.”

“What I’ve been trying to tell you is that the KGB has infiltrated this country, your country.  Not in small groups, but in hundreds.”

“But why are you telling me all this stuff?”

“I think my controller has gone crazy.  He shot this guy last week because he thought he was a CSAC agent.  I didn’t think being a cicada meant we had to kill.  I just thought it would be a game.”

“Who was this guy you say was shot?”

“A CSAC agent named Richard Winslow.”

“What is Seasack?”

“CSAC.  C-S-A-C.”

“What is C-S-A-C?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?  Who is your controller?”

“I only know his first name, it’s Tim.  His real name is Dimitri.”

“Where was this Winslow shot?”

“Near Mankato.”

Sensing he was getting nowhere with this person, Wilkinson looked at his watch.

“Mr. Sorenson, I can’t continue this discussion now because I have to be across town in ten minutes.  Can I call you tomorrow?”

“No, Dimitri might find out.  I’ll call you.”

“Well, have it your way,” sighed Wilkinson as he escorted Sorenson out to the lobby.

As Sorenson left the precinct house, Wilkinson asked the police sergeant if he had heard of any shootings in Mankato, involving a Richard Winslow.  The sergeant said he would check InfoNet and switched his computer on.  After the greenish prompt, he typed in the alphanumeric identifying the precinct and requested the search mode.

The computer responded:  SEARCH KEYWORDS:

The police sergeant typed in: Winslow, Richard Winslow, R. Winslow, Mankato.    In a short minute, the computer responded: SEARCH TERM NOT FOUND.

Wilkinson looked over his colleague’s shoulder at the response.

“What are you gonna do, Pete?”

“I guess we should write it up and send it down the chain.  Maybe we should also send it to DODNet, just in case.  My guess is that we’ll never see him again.  I wonder what he was smoking.”

Wilkinson trudged wearily back to his desk.

1600 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Lake of the Isles Bicycle Repair Shop, Minneapolis

Sorenson worked on the aquamarine Diamond Back trail bike trying to get the derailleur to work right.  “Damn kids, they spend five, six hundred dollars on an expensive bike and then they hop curbs and go up and down steps like they were in Sherman tanks,” he muttered.

Here, at least, surrounded by his beloved bicycles, there was order to the world.

Visiting the police station had a cathartic effect on Sorenson, but had instilled anger as well.  That detective had been making fun of him.

When he arrived home, Sorenson went into the bathroom, took a shower, got a beer out of the refrigerator, and sat down before the television and then went to his shop for the first time in days.

Sorenson was thoroughly engrossed in the problem of straightening out the derailleur that had been mangled in a fall its rider had taken while going down a flight of stone steps.  He did not hear the front door of his shop open and the man walk in.

Feeling a presence, Sorenson turned to see the outline of a man framed in the doorway.  The outside light, shining behind the man, made it difficult to see who the newcomer was.

“Can I help you?” said Sorenson.

“Nikolayevich, I’ve sent you many messages, but I’ve heard no response.”

“Dimitri.”

“Nikolai, why have you not responded to my commands?”

“I’ve been very busy with my repair shop.  I haven’t gone by the canoe racks.”

The canoe racks on the northern shore of Lake of the Isles was the drop point for messages from Walsh to his subordinates.  They were required to check for messages regularly.  Sorenson has ignored this duty in recent days.

“But you know your prime duty.”

“Yes, Comrade.  I know my prime duty.”