Crossing Savage (21 page)

“The GPS and inertial navigation systems appear to be functional.”

“Our air supply is low. It will be dark shortly; then we'll steer back to the north end of the island. Staying on the surface, we can conserve air and use the GPS guidance system.”

“Captain. The acoustic signature of the DTV is still there, separate from the
Saint Petersburg.
” The sonar officer listened to the sound from his headphones and then added, “The DTV is moving away from the sub at a high rate of speed.”

“It looks like your bluff spooked them off before the sled could be retrieved,” said Tom Meier.

Captain Berry nodded agreement. “Sonar, can you tell where the DTV is headed?”

There was a long pause as the sonar officer concentrated. He had his left hand against the earphone and was trying to hear minute details, subtle differences in sound that would provide clues. Then he looked at the waterfall display, flipping a couple of toggle switches until the display showed what he was looking for.

“The DTV has surfaced… dead in the water. It didn't move far from the rendezvous location, less than 300 yards I'd say. She's just sitting there on the surface.”

“XO, take her up to 40 feet and deploy the optical mast. I want to search for that sniper team. Have a boarding party stand ready.”

The Virginia class attack submarines used a variety of electro-optical sensors rather than traditional optical periscopes. This improvement allowed the captain to see in both the visible and infrared spectrums and to use light amplification devices to see in extremely low light conditions. Images from any of the sensors were magnified electronically, and all images were automatically recorded and stored for future reference.

It didn't take long to find the Russian DTV bobbing on the surface of the relatively calm seas. The
New Mexico
steered a course directly for the sled. It was indeed stationary; either it had run out of battery power, or the divers had opted to shut it off.

“XO, take us directly under the DTV, speed two knots, depth 40 feet. I don't want them to know we are beneath them. Once in position, blow the ballast evenly. Let's see if you can land that fish on the forward deck.”

The sub came to a dead stop, and the ballast tanks were blown with compressed air, causing the boat to rise on an even keel. She rose quickly, and since she was already close to the surface, it was a matter of seconds before the conning tower broke the water surface.

It came up behind Vasili and Yuri, who were preoccupied with the sudden appearance of bubbles churning the sea on either side of their tiny sled. It didn't immediately register with either man that the bubbles were from a rising submarine. After all, how could one expect such an event in the middle of a very large ocean?

The
New Mexico
surfaced exactly beneath the Russian DTV. Even as the water was pouring off the decks, a hatch on the side of the sail opened and Tom Meier emerged, accompanied by four sailors armed with pistols, and they fanned out across the width of the deck, guns aimed squarely at the stunned Russians.

Vasili thought about trying to remove his sniper rifle from the water-proof container attached to the sled. But he knew he would be shot dead before he could get it open. With a sigh, he raised his hands, and Yuri followed suit.

Meier ordered them into the submarine. He then ordered a work party to lower the DTV through the forward torpedo loading hatch. Someone in the Pentagon, he mused, may have an interest in tearing it apart to see what they could learn.

Vasili and Yuri were given clean, dry clothes and a hot meal. Then they were placed in separate compartments, accompanied by two armed guards inside each compartment and one armed guard outside.

At the scheduled time, Captain Berry radioed COMSUBPAC and filed his report. Never in his wildest imagination did he expect to pluck two armed Russian Special Forces soldiers out of American territorial waters. What a story! Too bad he would never be allowed to share it with anyone outside the top Pentagon brass.

Chapter 17

September 26

Chernabura Island, West Side

Magnum and Ghost returned
about 90 minutes after they took off after the sniper team. They reported to Commander Nicolaou that the sniper team had exfiltrated the island from the north beach; they couldn't ascertain what type of craft was used. They were winded, having jogged most of the distance back to the cabin. Their commander ordered them to take a ten minute rest and drink plenty of water to rehydrate. Both Ghost and Magnum plopped into chairs on the porch, weapons at the ready—just in case.

The open area in front of the cabin had been converted into a make-shift morgue. The seven dead terrorists were laid side-by-side, covered by pieces of blue plastic cut from old tarps found folded on shelves in the cellar. Jack Murphy's body lay about twenty feet away; Davis had taken a blanket from the couch to cover Murph's still form. Even in death, Davis wanted the body of his friend to be distinguished from the scum that murdered him.

Jim Nicolaou went through the pockets of all seven terrorists and placed the contents in individual zip-lock plastic bags, labeled so they could be associated with the correct corpse. He also had Homer photograph the faces of all seven men and get their fingerprints—complete sets, left hand, right hand, as well as palm prints.

Bull downloaded the digital images and scanned the prints. Everything was assembled into data files that Bull emailed back to The Office using a secure satellite linkup. Both Peter and his father were very impressed by the efficiency with which the team utilized the advanced technology.

“I'd bet you'd find this equipment pretty useful for field work, Dad,” said Peter.

His father nodded. “But I don't think I would have any need for an encrypted satellite link.”

Peter turned to Jim. “Have you found anything of interest?”

“We'll know more after their prints are checked against the data bases of Interpol, Scotland Yard, CIA, FBI, NSA, DIA, DoD, DHS, and various state agencies. We may get lucky and match one or more photos, but I'm not counting on it.

“Ramirez was clean—no papers. The blond guy was carrying a Texas driver's license. Most likely fake, but we're running it now. And we found passports on two others—one is EU—the guy was using a French name. The other passport is Colombian. Rather careless actually, even if the documents are fake. More often than not, we can learn something from forged documents. Forgers tend to have a unique style, like artists. We can usually trace a document to the forger, and before long we have a clear trail to the document holder's true identity and country of origin.”

Bull interrupted. “All data files have been confirmed received, sir.”

Jim nodded. “The team is obviously multiracial. I think it's a safe bet that it's also multinational. They were well armed with military weaponry and uniforms, and they had advanced intelligence. It's surprising they would have any papers at all. Like Ramirez, they all should have been clean. They would have been if they were my team.

“But then again, they didn't expect any resistance. They were going against an unarmed group of scholars, and they were counting on the element of surprise. I doubt they expected the U.S. marshals, but it wouldn't have made any difference if they had. Ramirez failed because his team let their guard down. In my business, that mistake is usually fatal.”

Peter swallowed. He really had not had time to get to know this new James Nicolaou. The kid he remembered from high school was not the professional soldier standing before him now. Everything Jim was saying was so simple, so professional, so matter of fact. Except that he was talking about the lives of men.

“I'd venture this is a mercenary team. Whoever hired them wasn't taking any chances… and I'll bet their boss paid top dollar, too.”

“I thought these men were terrorists, not mercenaries,” said Professor Savage.

“To me, there's little distinction between them,” Jim replied. “Neither have moral scruples. They hire out for any job that pays well.”

“I see your point.”

Addressing Peter, Jim asked, “You said you placed the seismic charges in a Zodiac?”

“Yes.”

“So they were inserted by water as opposed to air… makes sense. Our defense radar would have picked up a helicopter. Besides, it would have been tough to organize a base from which to fly the team in here. Water makes more sense. They could have been brought in close to the island by a fishing boat or submarine. It's unlikely that either would be detected.”

“And how does that sniper team fit in?” asked Peter.

“That was the ‘fail safe'.”

“Excuse me?” said Professor Savage.

“The sniper team was sent in to make sure there were no prisoners. Whoever hired this team didn't want anyone to be captured and interrogated. A pity. I think we would have learned much from Ramirez—or whatever his name really was.”

“You make all this sound normal,” Peter observed.

Jim looked hard at Peter. “What does ‘normal' mean? In my business, this is normal. But I hope it always remains foreign to most people—it's not pleasant, but we live in a world where my job is necessary.”

Jim was not angry, just surprised to hear this from Peter. After all, not many hours ago Peter shot dead two men who were doing their best to murder his father and colleagues.

“Look, we develop a language—a collection of words and phrases—that insulates us to some degree from the brutality. Politicians and other civilians live within a cloud of euphemisms because they don't want to believe stuff like this is really going on. My job is not pleasant. I do it because someone needs to do it. Good men must always rise against evil, right?”

Peter was quiet. Jim's words resonated within him in a way he didn't think possible. Now he realized how naïve his statement had been. Yes, he did understand what Jim was telling him, and he understood why Jim could carry out such violence against his opponents. It is exactly why Peter was able to shoot the two terrorists or mercenaries—whatever they labeled themselves—earlier in the day.

Professor Savage shook his head. “I'm too old for this crap. In my day, governments fought governments. There were rules armies played by—most of the time, anyway. But we didn't have this terrorist crap. You knew who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. We all wore uniforms, for God's sake!”

“It's a different world, Dad. Whatever the reason, governments waging war on governments seems to be a thing of the past.”

“I'm going to pour myself a whisky. Do you want one too?” Professor Savage asked no one in particular. Both Jim and Peter declined, knowing they could not afford to slow down yet. Too much remained to be done.

Bull walked up and handed Jim the radio handset. “Nicolaou,” he said and listened for a full minute.

Then Jim spoke briefly with typical military efficiency. “Very good. Let me know as soon as you have anything on the remaining prints.”

He returned the handset to Bull. “Looks like we have positive IDs on two of them. Henri Dumas, former French Foreign Legion, known mercenary. First time he has shown up in connection with a known terrorist action. I guess he was having a hard time finding work in Africa.

“The other guy is Pablo Ramirez, AKA Ricky Ramirez. He fancied himself a general, but he had no official military association. His brother is Vasquez Ramirez; both have connections to al-Qaeda and the FARC leadership. Together, Pablo and Vasquez are thought to have helped plan and execute the Caracas Hedberg attack that left 45 civilians dead.”

“What about the Texas driver's license?” asked Peter.

“As I expected, it's a forgery. I suspect the blond guy is an American, very likely trained by the Army or Marine Corps, so chances are good we'll be able to pull his ID from defense records.”

Peter was numb. This was feeling very surreal, like he was watching these events unfold on a movie screen, yet he was somehow in the movie, too.
No time to daydream, I need to stay focused
. “What can I do to help?” he asked Jim.

“Just make sure everything gets packed up—everyone's personal gear as well as the scientific equipment. The Sea Stallion will be arriving soon.”

Peter joined the others and began putting clothing and toiletries into small duffle bags. He helped Professor Sato and his father pack up the laptops. Most of the sophisticated scientific equipment would be taken later, when the cleanup crew left the island.

Harry and Daren busied themselves packing the few rock samples that had been collected between sheets of foam rubber inside two small wooden crates. Adding more foam to the crates to ensure the rocks would remain secure and well padded, they put the wooden tops in place and drove in more screws than was probably necessary. But this familiar act served as a welcome distraction, forcing their minds to think about more healthy issues.

Exactly on schedule, the helicopter came in low over the island from the east, avoiding the mountain peaks to the north and south. It hovered over the meadow 50 yards from the cabin as the pilot searched for a safe place to put the helicopter down, mindful to maintain plenty of distance from the trees. The Sea Stallion gently touched the ground, and the engine idled for a half minute and then shut down. As the rotor blades spun to a stop, the sliding side door opened, and the cleanup team spilled out from the craft.

Dressed in olive drab flight suits, the cleanup team—two men and two women—approached Nicolaou, exchanging salutes. One person spoke softly to Jim. Then the team moved smartly into the cabin to do their magic.

Jim turned to Professor Savage. “It's time. Round up your people and have them assemble here with their duffle bags. You can bring the rock samples, but leave the instrument crates—they'll come out later, and I'll have them shipped to you at the university.”

They all assembled in front of the cabin. Each was carrying one duffle bag and a laptop except for Peter—he had his duffle bag and the hard-sided gun case. The perishable food would be disposed of by the cleanup crew. Anything that was dried or canned would be locked up in the cupboards and left for the next time he came to the cabin. The shutters would be closed over the windows and locked; with a bit of luck, the bears would not break into the cabin and go after the food.

Jim had everyone climb into the Sea Stallion. The bodies would be removed by the cleaners on the next flight. The first stop for the SGIT team and the scientists would be Elmendorf Air Force Base. There they would transfer to a C-37A military transport that would fly them to McClellan Business Park.

On board the helicopter, Peter finally began to feel safe. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, but it didn't work. His brain kept working, replaying the ordeal at the cabin—the murder of Jack Murphy and the close call with death they had all experienced. He thought that at least the students—Daren, Harry, Karen, and Junichi—seemed to be recovering. He could only hope that the psychological trauma would heal quickly.

Peter reopened his eyes and took stock of everyone. Karen had laid her head on Junichi's shoulder, and she seemed to be asleep. Junichi held his head upright, but his eyes were closed. Professor Sato had a stoic look on his face, as was typical for him.

No one tried to talk over the intense roar inside the helicopter. Peter looked over at his father. He had his eyes shut, succumbing to the exhaustion. Peter studied his father's face; he looked uncharacteristically old. His faced appeared to be etched deeply with innumerable lines and wrinkles Peter had never noticed before. His hair and beard—normally very neatly manicured—were tussled and straggly.

Peter laid his head back and felt the rhythmic vibrations of the helicopter. His eyelids felt heavy, and his thoughts drifted, finally settling on his children, Ethan and Joanna. What were they doing today, he wondered? Maybe Joanna was busy decorating a client's new home. She was probably absorbed in defining a color palate that appealed to her artistic sense as well as the client's preferences. And what about Ethan? Was he studying for his classes? Peter just wanted to return to a normal life, but it seemed so far away. Slowly his mind finally gave in, and sleep enveloped his body.

For Jim Nicolaou there would be no rest on this flight—there was still too much to be done; the hard work was just beginning.

Although they had won the battle, the war still raged on. Like the mythical Hydra, he had succeeded in cutting off the beast's head, but he feared two more would soon sprout anew. To slay the beast, they would have to cut out its heart. And to do that, Jim knew he and his team would have to find its lair.