Falling Star (39 page)

"Mike, here's something of interest," said Mannington holding the station log.  "The last log entry was a day ago, but it's in code."

"Well, guys, there isn't anything more we can do here.  Let's get back to the Ranger.  Don't forget the log, Joe," said Mike.

The team climbed up the ladder through the transfer lock and into the Benthic Ranger.  Bell secured the Watch Station and locked the hatch for the Benthic Ranger.  As Graham flooded the transfer lock, the crew of the Benthic Ranger could hear the hissing sound of the escaping air.

Inside the Watch Station, the stillness was broken by the soft metallic clang as the Benthic Ranger broke free of the locking plate.  The echoes of the clang hung for an eternity in the stillness of the station, interrupted only by a strange scraping sound.

1993: Martha

1700 Hours: Tuesday, June 29, 1993: Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C.

"Herb, we should get the data today," said Martha into the telephone.  There was a knock on Martha's door.  "Can you hold for a minute, Herb?"

"Ms. Thomas?"

"Yes, Janey," said Martha.  "Herb, can I call you back?"  Martha returned the handset to its cradle.  "What's up, Janey?"

"We got that report on Grayson's family, Ms. Thomas," said Janey Smith, the computer analyst in Information Services, who had been helping Martha run the background checks.

"It seems your hunch was right.  Grayson's mother is a native of the United States, okay.  But his father turned up with the same false identification as I've seen with the others," said Janey as she handed the computer printout to Martha.

Martha took the sheet, read it, and then sank into her office chair.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes.  Thanks, Janey.  Could you let me have a few minutes, please?"

"Sure, Ms. Thomas."

Janey left Martha in her small, windowless office on the third floor of the Herbert Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C.  Martha's office was small and cramped, stuffed with computer paraphernalia, monitors, a Gateway 2000, an older IBM AT, a HP Laserjet II printer, 3.5 inch diskettes, and computer software manuals scattered on her desk and credenza.  Martha called it controlled chaos.

Over the credenza was a framed graduation certificate from the Federal Bureau of Investigation Academy at Quantico, Virginia.  On her credenza was a gold statue of a woman firing a revolver standing on a wooden pedestal.  The bronze plaque at the foot of the wooden pedestal said, "Third Place, Martha Ann Thomas, National Shootist Competition, Nashville, Tennessee, 1991."

Martha picked up the slip of paper that had been brought in by Janey and stared intently at the information contained on that paper.  She put down the paper, held her head in her hands.  Her forehead furrowed as she read the report one more time.

Finally, Martha got up and put the sheet of paper on her desk.  Martha reached into her right hand desk drawer for her .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol in its leather holster, and put the holstered pistol in her handbag.  Putting on her suit jacket, she took one final look at the slip of paper on her desk, and opened the door to her office.

"Shit."

Martha turned off the light and closed the door.

0900 Hours: Monday, February 12, 1981: Cambridge High School, Cambridge, Massachusetts

"Good morning class, I'm Arthur George Morrison.  I'll be your teacher this semester.  The name of the class is Introduction to Computing.  I'm sure we will have lots of fun learning the wonderful world of computer science."

With a flourish Arthur Morrison raised his arms in jubilation.  In a startling display of technology, all the computers and printers in the classroom burst into life.

One computer played an electronic simulation of "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy."

Another computer started drawing a convoluted, intricately intertwined, constantly changing, multicolored line drawing.

A third computer started flashing a sequence of rainbow colors accompanied by different musical tones as the colors changed and then blossomed into a computer generated rainbow.

A fourth computer displayed a Pong game.

A fifth computer drew a chessboard and then challenged the students to play.

A human like synthesized voice on the sixth computer started asking personal questions of the students and asked them to stay and talk awhile.

The seventh computer loaded the screen full of numerical data using Lotus 123.

One printer started printing out a line by line drawing of Snoopy flying the Sopwith Camel.

Reams of computer paper literally flew out of another printer in a glorious fountain of white paper.

A third printer started drawing the Mona Lisa in color.

A fourth printer drew a large banner-like message saying, "WELCOME TO THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF COMPUTERS."

Fourteen-year-old freshman Martha Ann Thomas was dumb struck and utterly captivated.  Having signed up for this class out of curiosity rather than from some deep-seated desire to understand computers, Martha Ann had come to the class with some fear and trepidation.

Martha Ann and her classmates exploded in thunderous laughter and applause.

0900 Hours: Wednesday, June 30, 1993: Hyatt Regency, Bethesda

"Mildred?"

"Yes."

"It's Martha.  I'm downstairs in the lobby, can you come down?"

"Sure, I'll be there in five minutes," said Mildred as she checked out her Beretta one last time.

Martha watched as the glass enclosed elevator brought Mildred from her fifth floor room to the lobby.

"Hi, Martha.  What's up?"

"I'll tell you in the car."

The two agents left the front door, turned left and walked outside to the elevator to the parking garage.  Going to Level P-1, Martha and Mildred walked through the garage to Martha's gray Chevrolet Caprice.

As they exited the garage and made the compulsory right turn on to Wisconsin Avenue, going toward Washington, Martha said, "It turns out that Grayson's father may be implicated.  His name is Arthur Morrison.  He was my computer science teacher in high school, the guy who turned me on to computers -- my favorite teacher."

"Oh, my.  You poor dear."

"He still teaches at Cambridge High School.  We're going to have to take him in.  Let's grab the twelve noon USAir flight to Logan Airport."

1600 Hours: Wednesday, June 30, 1993: Cambridge High School, Cambridge, Massachusetts

Martha and Mildred stood outside the heavy oak door with a frosted glass window.  Gilt lettering said "Room 314A - Computing."  Martha fought back her emotions.  Arthur Morrison had meant so much to her, the person who taught a young Martha Ann Thomas that the only limitation she would ever face were the unlimited bounds of her mind.

"Mildred, I'd like to take him in myself.  Can you back me up?"

"You okay?"

"Yes."

Mildred discretely took out her Beretta, checked the magazine, chambered a round, and placed it at her side.  She purposefully stood to the side of the doorway, out of view.

Martha knocked on the door.

"Come in," called out the familiar voice of Arthur Morrison.

"Mr. Morrison?" said Martha as she entered the familiar classroom.  Nothing much had changed inside the room.  The atmosphere was still the upbeat, cheerful, computer friendly classroom it had been when fourteen-year-old Martha Ann first entered twelve years ago.

At the front of the classroom, a white-haired man in his early sixties sat reading a book.  He was a largish man, his flesh pale and white with reddish splotches.  Even though it was a warm summer afternoon, the old man was dressed in a white shirt, blue and red striped necktie, and a light gray wool tweed jacket, smelling faintly of camphor.

Although the man's desk obscured the rest of his clothing, Martha knew from memory that his outfit was completed by dark gray wool trousers with cuffs, blue silk socks, and cordovan wing tipped shoes.  Morrison wore this outfit all year round.

As he read, he drew on a burlwood pipe and sleepy wisps of bluish gray smoke floated toward the ceiling in the still air of the room.  The smell of Old Sail tobacco brought back pleasant memories to Martha, who continued to struggle with the truth.

Arthur Morrison looked up from his reading, recognition lit up his face.  "Martha Ann, how nice to see you again.  What brings you back to Cambridge?  I haven't seen you since you graduated from M.I.T.  Where did you go to work again?"  He rummaged through his desk drawer.  "Oh, yes.  You went to work for the federal government.  What agency was that again, Martha Ann?"

"It was the FBI, Mr. Morrison."

"Oh yes, I remember now," said Arthur Morrison as he brought the snub-nosed .38 caliber Police Special from underneath the desk and pointed it at Martha.  "This is such a tragedy, Martha Ann.  You always were my favorite student."

"Why?" said Martha Ann.  "Why have you done this?"

"Oh, come on now, Agent Thomas.  This started as part of the eternal struggle between two powerful adversaries and now has gotten a life of its own.  You and your pitiful colleagues at CSAC and the FBI will never be a match for the organization that I have established in this weak, decadent country of yours."

"You won't get away with this, Morrison."

"So, it's Morrison now, Martha Ann.  You always had a flair for the dramatic.  I'm surprised that you came alone, I thought you capitalist apparatchiks always traveled in groups.  But then, you always were impetuous, Martha Ann.  It made you so charming in high school."

"You might be able to get me, but there will be others."

"I think not.  If I know you, Martha Ann, you probably saw this in heroic terms.  High Noon with Gary Cooper, or maybe you thought you were Dirty Harry.  I suspect you had to confront me by yourself.  Now, please hand me your weapon carefully, Agent Thomas."

There was little that Martha could do but comply.  She reached into her purse and carefully brought out her pistol and laid it on Morrison's desk.

"Now, that's a good girl," said Morrison, as he put Martha's gun in his waistband.  "Now we're going for a little ride.  What I must do cannot be done in this hallowed classroom.  That would be a sacrilege."

"Obviously you're not Arthur Morrison," said Martha.  "Who are you?"

"Now, now, my dear Martha Ann, that would be a state secret.  But it doesn't matter anymore, since it will go nowhere.  I am Gregor Ivanovich Lechenkov, Colonel General of the Army of the United Soviet Socialist Republics and a director-resident of the KGB, assigned to command the forces of the Motherland in this decadent land under Project Cicada.

"As the leader of the hundreds of dedicated men and women of Project Cicada, I have a duty to them.  A duty that transcends even the national pride that first brought us to these degenerate shores.  I must shepherd them, justify their existence.  So you see, my dear Martha Ann, you have stumbled on to the biggest catch you could have ever made in your career with the FBI.  Too bad it has to work out this way."

Perplexed, Martha said, "But why now, with Russia and America moving toward unrestrained cooperation?  Doesn't that eliminate the need for your mission?"

His eyes flashed.  "Silly girl.  Do you really believe that because a few old weak men in Moscow decide to turn on the Motherland, in favor of whining women and misdirected children, that the cause is lost?  Like the proverbial bear, the cause must go into hibernation to survive this chill, this cold wind from the west.  In time, even the so-called Newly Independent States will realize that only central planning can deliver a full stomach.  Then, Martha Ann, then my people will rise again.  No, the struggle didn't die simply because that drunken traitor Yeltsin climbed on to a tank.  No, it has just begun.”

All the while, Lechenkov got more agitated.  He pushed back his chair and stood balancing by one hand as he kept his pistol aimed at his former student.

"The same pressures that compelled the formation of the Soviet Union in 1917 are once again at play.  The centuries-old wounds, such as between the Serbs and the Croatians, resurfaced immediately when they were granted your so-called freedom.  All that your so-called liberty has done is to kill innocents so that some zealot can avenge some long lost hatred.  So much for your freedom.  Only the might of the central government of the Soviet Union could channel those hatreds and jealousies toward a common good, which it did for more than seventy glorious years.  No, my dear Martha Ann, my services will be needed for a long time to come, despite the crude attempts to terminate my valuable mission.

"What right do these revisionists have to redefine our goals at such a late date?  What right do they have to tell us that only 38,000 out of 500,000 KGB agents will survive to continue in the service of the glorious state?  What do they realistically expect the remaining 462,000 trained agents will do?  Disappear into the shadows of life?  Become taxicab drivers, shopkeepers, pensioners?  Come on, Martha Ann, surely you can see my point."

"But, Mr. Morrison, surely you have …"

Lechenkov's voice became even more strident.

"What right do they have to take my heritage away, my years of work, and leave me with crumbs?  I have served the Motherland well and this is what they, the so-called saviors of the Russian nation, give me in return?  They don't have a right to liquidate my mission and order me to simply cease and desist.  What is left for me at home, no apartment, no dacha, not even food on the table?  What is the inheritance I shall leave my grandchildren?

"Hero of the Soviet, bah!  I spit on it.  You can't eat medals and accolades.  These old men and their whimpering women are fools.  My troops are conditioned to respond to no one but me -- not to the weaklings in the Kremlin or their suckling lap dogs in Lubyanka.  They will do as I want and I shall be in a position to take the Motherland back to the clear thinking that would have never permitted the travails of Glasnost or Perestroika.  We have resources that even the Politburo never imagined it had.  The funny thing is that I haven't needed the fools in Lubyanka for years.  They just didn't notice.