America (46 page)

The boss, General Blevins, was in Florida, huddled with the techies. The software gurus were narrowing down the possibilities of what might have gone wrong with the SuperAegis rocket. Blevins had brought in more experts from Space Command and felt he had to be present while the experts consulted.

Jake walked through the empty office, fingering this and that, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Washington, the dead city!

The newspapers were back in production, somehow, and people had proudly carried in copies this morning. A small symbol of normal life had returned, and welcome it was. The papers were full of predictions about when power and telephone service would be restored, when life would be “back to normal.”

Normal.

And they were full of speculation about Kolnikov,
America,
and Tomahawk missiles. “Where is Kolnikov?” screamed one banner headline. If only Kolnikov had known. With a good lawyer and the right public relations firm, the Russian skipper could probably beat the rap and sell a book for millions, perhaps even get a movie sale. Add in a highly publicized relationship with a naughty pop singer or starlet … well, the possibilities boggled the imagination.

The question, though, was a good one. Where
was
Kolnikov?

Jake was drinking coffee and thinking about possible answers to that question when Krautkramer, the FBI special agent in charge, came in.

Krautkramer told him more than he wanted to know about Myron Matheny. He grunted occasionally as he listened to the FBI agent, but he had no questions. When Krautkramer ran down, Jake said, “Tell me about Peter Kerr.”

“The missing NASA specialist? What do you want to know?”

“Everything you haven't told me. The works.”

“When do you want this?”

“Now.”

Krautkramer snapped his fingers.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Jake said.

“Must have been pretty rough, seeing Jadot get it like that.”

“I think he was dead when he hit the ground. Bullet seemed to go through a lung and into his heart. Actually a pretty good way to go, all things considered.”

“Was he the target? Or you?”

“Maurice Jadot was a genuine nice guy who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was sent to the liaison team to learn all he could about SuperAegis and report back to French intelligence. Presumably he did just that. If he knew anything at all about submarines and Tomahawk missiles, he never gave me a hint.”

“I heard Matheny had your photo in his car.”

“Maybe he was after me, maybe not,” Jake said, not willing to label himself worth killing. “If I was his target he made a hash of it. Jadot's tough luck, killed by an incompetent assassin. Hope they don't put that on my tombstone.”

“Umm,” said Krautkramer, and looked around. “Where's Carmellini? I have some information for him. He asked me to check a fingerprint. Well, actually some prints embedded on latex finger sleeves.” He removed a manila envelope from his file and tossed it on Jake's desk. “That guy is something else. Some cock-and-bull story about a sultry wench and knockout drops … and the sleeves have a dead woman's prints on them.” He told Jake the name.

Grafton went to the door and called for the CIA officer.

Carmellini stared at Krautkramer when he heard the news. “How long has she been dead?” he asked, so softly he had to repeat the question. “How long?”

“She died in a car wreck about a month ago.”

Jake jumped in. “This ID is off the FBI fingerprint computer?”

“In Clarksburg. We just scan in the print and they code it digitally and the computer searches the files.”

“Has anyone hacked into the files lately?”

Krautkramer looked startled. “Not to my knowledge, but that isn't the kind of thing that lands on my desk.”

“Does the government maintain any other fingerprint files?”

“A few agencies still maintain their own. It's a duplication of effort, so we're trying to get them all in-house, but you know bureaucrats.”

“Indeed I do. But these databases … someone has been manipulating the data they contain. I can tell you for an absolute fact that a collection of career flag officers hasn't invested money in currency futures and hasn't sold out to Jouany. Let's find out who Sarah Houston really is. How about sending an FBI team to the CIA safe house in New York where Carmellini met this woman and have them go over the place for prints. See if these are the prints of the woman he knew as Sarah Houston or if someone at the CIA substituted prints.”

“Okay. We can do that.”

He waited until Krautkramer was out the door before he tossed Carmellini the envelope. “You and Toad visit some Beltway bandits today. The Reston area is full of small high-tech shops that don't use the FBI master fingerprint files.”

Toad was standing in the door. “We're not fingerprint experts,” he said, frowning.

“You don't have to be. The FBI has classified the prints, so it's a matter of matching classifications. Not good enough for court, but good enough for us. I want a name and photo of a woman who isn't dead. It's a long shot, I know, but it's possible she is the person who manipulated Jouany's database. If she is, she's a computer expert, and that means she's been around the high-tech industry. If she isn't, she can tell us who sent her to bat her eyes at Carmellini. Let's turn over some rocks and see what's underneath.”

Toad nodded. “Nothing on DeGarmo's hard drives is of interest to us, boss. E-mails to nieces and nephews, his brother, a couple women he is apparently mildly interested in, and that's about it. Oh, he does answers to suggestion box questions on one computer.”

“Mail the hard drives back to him. Try to do it in such a way that Krautkramer doesn't come charging over here waving warrants for our arrest.”

For the first time in weeks, Jake saw a glimmer of light. He told himself not to get his hopes up—but. Somewhere in this mess was someone who knew a whole hell of a lot about computer databases and security systems. And he doubted if that someone was Peter Kerr, the missing NASA software expert.

*   *   *

When Vladimir Kolnikov was convinced that there were no submarines lying in wait, he eased the photonics mast above the surface. The camera looked at the sky, lowered its point of aim, spun through 360 degrees, then automatically eased down into its housing. In the control room, Kolnikov, Turchak, and Heydrich examined the video. After they had run through it slowly, they ran it again and froze the frame on a ship anchored three miles away, at the entrance to the bay at Cadiz.

“That's her,
Global Pioneer.
”

“I see no American ships, no airplanes,” murmured Turchak, who was worrying a fingernail.

“We have done it, then,” Kolnikov said. He looked around the control room, at Eck, Boldt, and the others, and smiled. “And done it well.”

“We're only halfway there,” Heydrich growled. “Just you be here when I come back.”

“Or what?” Kolnikov demanded harshly. Then he softened his tone. “God, you are tiresome.”

“Bring us some beer,” Eck said.

“A reasonable request,” Kolnikov agreed. “A case, please. Something bitter. A good German beer.”

Heydrich turned and went aft. Kolnikov followed him. From the engineering spaces they climbed a ladder to the compartment that housed the airlock. One climbed through it to gain access to the minisub, which was mated to the boat above it. Heydrich went first, climbing the ladder. He settled into the minisub pilot's seat while Kolnikov stood on the ladder with only his head inside.

Heydrich flipped switches, and the minisub's battery brought it to life.

“Don't forget to flood the ballast tanks or you'll bob to the surface like a cork,” Kolnikov advised.

“I won't forget, Captain.”

“We will cruise back and forth. Use the underwater telephone and your lights. We will have our lights on. You shouldn't have any trouble once you see us. I'll have the boat at three knots to maintain plane effectiveness.”

“I understand.”

“Good luck,” Kolnikov said, dropping down into the airlock. He carefully shut the hatch and dogged it down. Only when he was sure that the hatch was properly sealed did he continue on down the ladder and close the hatch at the bottom of the lock, then dog it down.

He stood listening. He heard water rushing into the minisub's tanks. After a few moments that sound ceased. Finally he heard the minisub's hydraulic latches retract. He heard it scrape along the hull, bump several times, then it was free of the boat, swimming on its own.

Only then did Kolnikov leave the compartment and make his way forward toward the control room.

*   *   *

The minisub had no windows. Closed-circuit video cameras showed the pilot what was ahead and to the sides. Worse, the pilot had to skillfully manipulate the cameras by means of joysticks, adjusting the sensitivity of the light sensors, all while operating the rudder and planes. The task required skill and practice, neither of which Heydrich had ever had.

He immediately realized he was in over his head. For the first time in his life, Heydrich knew fear. When he released the hydraulic locks that held the minisub to
America,
he also engaged the electric motor. The minisub actually slid backward, scraping along the hull, before he gave it enough power to keep pace with the mother ship. Then he found he had too much ballast aboard and slid off the rounded side of
America.
The sub sank, the nose dropping, as he pulled back on the yoke and added power and blew off some ballast.

Finally, he wasn't sure how, he got the craft stabilized.
America
was a dark presence on his starboard side, separating from him in the gloomy sea.

For the first time he looked at the compass. Yes, he realized with a flash of panic, he had not even checked the submarine's base course or whether the minisub's compass jibed with that number. He had no choice; he had to assume all was working properly. If it wasn't, he would soon be on the surface, he hoped, swimming to stay alive.

He bit the bullet, picked up the underwater telephone, and keyed the mike. “What is the course I should follow?”

The answer, when it came back, was ethereal. “Try steering one two zero, which will be a ten-degree crab for the current. Three miles.”

Gingerly he turned the sub to that course and concentrated on holding a steady heading and even depth.

Gradually the fear left him. He could do this! He had used underwater sleds before—this was just a larger version, he told himself. Yet he wished he had paid more attention when Rothberg had explained the controls.

With the current running, the minisub took a half hour to make the three-mile passage. It was with great relief that Heydrich saw the hull of
Global Pioneer
materialize in the murky water ahead.

He was getting the hang of operating the minisub now, so he steered under the ship, adding ballast judiciously, until he saw the dark black hole in her keel. That was the hole through which underwater fiber-optic cable was laid. Fortunately there was no cable dangling there just now, so Heydrich inched the sub forward using the maneuvering jets, taking his time. When he got under the hole, he tilted the forward camera up, so he could see into it. And he saw lights.

Reassured, at what he judged was the proper moment he blasted the ballast tanks with compressed air to lift the minisub quickly. She caromed once off the side of the hole, then rose into it.

When he opened the top hatch, a voice spoke to him. “We thought you'd never get here.”

*   *   *

Heydrich made two trips between
Global Pioneer
and
America,
ferrying divers and their gear. He also brought two cases of beer and a stack of newspapers that detailed the physical damage the E-warheads had caused in Washington and New York, and the psychological, political, and financial damage, which was, by any measure, stupendous. The administration was in deep and serious trouble, according to the pundits. Congress was in a mercurial mood, demanding the heads of everyone responsible.

Which includes us, Kolnikov thought as he read the stories while sipping beer in the wardroom. At the next table the divers laughed and scratched with several members of the crew, who were delightedly telling them about the battle in the depths.

When the cook brought in food, Heydrich came in and sat down beside Kolnikov. “So how did it go?” Kolnikov asked.

“I made many mistakes,” Heydrich admitted. “I have learned much.”

“I have heard it said that experience is a mistake you lived through.”

“Then I have gained experience.”

They discussed the minisub, how it operated, each man learning from the other.

“What are our chances of finding the satellite on the seamount?” Heydrich asked.

“Such a long distance, such a small target. If the missile missed by more than four miles, it will be too deep for us to recover with the gear we have. You will have to return later with one of your salvage ships. If the Americans haven't found it first. Believe me, they haven't given up.”

“I understand.”

“The water over the seamount is shallow and very dangerous for a submarine. If a submarine comes prowling while you are out, or a patrol plane, my first responsibility will be to save the boat. I will return for you when and if I can.”

“I understand.”

“These others,” Kolnikov indicated the laughing men at the next table, “do they understand the risks?”

“Diving is a dangerous life. They know that. The money for this job is very, very good. No one lives forever.”

“So they say,” Kolnikov replied.

*   *   *

That afternoon one of the televisions at Hudson Security Services was tuned to a local cable news station in Alexandria, Virginia. By midafternoon the station had the story on the shootings at Crystal City and the subsequent death of the assassin in a traffic accident. Zelda Hudson glanced up when she heard it, watched the footage, most of which was of the mangled remains of the stolen Ford, and said nothing. She was writing a proposal for a company in California and continued working on it, huddling with three or four of her staff, negotiating with a travel agent over train schedules to get two people to the West Coast.