The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (25 page)

J
ericho called the person who could help her the quickest. She imagined him tipping back in his chair, smiling beneath his receding hairline at the pictures of his grandchildren adorning the desk, the phone lodged between his jowls and shoulder, a coffee mug in one hand and a ballpoint pen clicking in the other.

“Good morning, Admiral.”

“You’re sounding all bright and cheery. What’s up, Lainey darlin’?”

The naval commander took no offense. From Alabama, the soft-spoken Cottrell Herndon had talked this way to her in private since recruiting her. Forged in steel, the no-nonsense vice admiral was an affable Southern gentleman who understood military formality had its time and place, but not when he was consulting someone that he considered his equal.

“Admiral, go secure please.”

She pressed a button on the STU-III. They’d speak again in fifteen seconds. The words
SECURE TO CODE WORD LEVEL
scrolled across the panel.

“So, Lainey, how was your electronic trip through space?”

“Good morning again, Admiral.” She heard the pen clicking. “Interesting development. My new analyst found the freighter. Thanks to your help.”

“Glad to be of assistance. Don’t want the CIA Russia watchers stealing all the bandwidth.”

That agency’s fixation with the prior Cold War enemy remained a nagging hangover, frustrating other intelligence gathering. Negotiating satellite time required persistent effort.

“Sir, the ship moved the containers from Berbera to Mukha through a well-executed plan devised for deception.”

“Darn those satellite viewers,” Herndon commented.

No matter how secret, after every Vandenberg rocket launch, observers would monitor the trajectories, send the information to specific websites, and the calculations would begin. In days the satellite’s orbit would be available to anyone with a computer. The information was so accurate, any illicit activity on the ground could be planned accordingly, hiding it from the probing sensors high above.

“Your man Sorenson did a fine job. Got some good folks working there. They make America proud.” His chuckling fuzzed as his words were encrypted, transmitted, and reconstituted.

“Thank you, Admiral. They’re all dedicated.”

Herndon had given his highest recommendation that Jericho be assigned the senior analyst position. He admired her devotion to duty—a trait that had rubbed off on her staff.

“Gawd. Lainey darlin’, I’ve told you to call me
Cotty
. We are encrypted…”

His unrelenting request was difficult for the starched officer. Ignoring him, she continued, “Sir, the IR image as the ship entered Karachi shows a person hanging off the stern,” she paused, “probably alive.”

“Trolling for tuna?” A folksy laugh followed.

“Please, Cotty.” Maybe if she said his first name, he’d back off his droll humor for the rest of the conversation. “A more recent image shows the ship’s still in port for too long when she should be underway. There’s just low infrared from the engines and…no cargo’s moving.”

“Interesting,” he said.

“I doubt we’re going to have any more success from above getting her identity, but maybe we still have an opportunity from ground level. Perhaps a faster way…”

“Let me call a friend at CINCMED,” he interrupted. “See if anybody’s got a ship in that cesspool to take an eyeball gander. Heck, I’ll tell him it’s a
Priority One
request just to raise his blood pressure but let him know he’ll get a case of Kentucky single barrel if he makes good. That will put fire to his behind.” The man laughed.

“Thank y—”

He was gone. Jericho knew he was already calling the fleet admiral in charge of Mediterranean operations.

“A case of bourbon…” She shook her head at the peculiar interactions between the upper echelons, while staring at the dingy ceiling tiles then at the worn carpeting that hid a floor filled with miles of electronic cables.

Jericho reached down and chased a dust bunny with her fingers.

“Hmm. Been a long time…”

She smiled, remembering early in her tenure when the director of janitorial services caught her vacuuming her office. The blushing officer moved a displaced clump of red hair away from her eyes, tripped over the power cord, and stumbled into his arms. They both laughed. After that Jericho baked Christmas cookies for his children and never crossed onto the wrong turf again.

A yawn followed the memory. Jericho wondered if anyone the admiral contacted would really be able to get the freighter’s name. Even in the spy world, nothing worked quickly. She didn’t want Sorenson to be disappointed. With no other alternative but to wait, she began reading stacks of administrative and intelligence reports, performance appraisals, and directives. Each was stamped
ASAP.

“Hey, Lainey…got some chicory?”

Herndon stuck his head through the door, knocking when he was already inside. Startled by the unplanned appearance, Jericho started to rise.

“As you were, Commander,” he said sweetly. “Keep your shoes off.”

Relieved, Jericho relaxed. Never wanting to appear casual, she worried that stockinged feet could be provocative to male staff, even an admiral with a father’s affection. Settling in her chair, her toes still groped for the shoes.

“You Southerners,” she said. “How about just regular coffee? Is that good enough…sir?”

“That’ll do,” he said, adding a broad grin. “And don’t you go worrying about your ol’ freighter. She isn’t upping anchor anytime soon. Tell you why.”

“Hold on, let me get Glen here. He deserves to hear this. Just temper your words, Admiral. Also, please don’t call me by my first name. The kid will get the wrong message.”

“Bring him on in. I love to share.”

Sorenson was visibly uneasy as he shook the admiral’s hand.

“Excellent job, Glen. Used your noggin. Commander Jericho speaks highly of you.”

Sorenson stood paralyzed.

“Could use you in navy intelligence. Ever think of signing up?”

“Sir, he’s all mine.” Jericho smiled at the admiral. “Glen, you can relax. This isn’t a firing squad. It’s about your freighter.”

The young analyst remained frozen. Closing her office door, Jericho motioned for him to sit. He waited until Herndon dropped in the closest chair. It released a worrisome groan.

The admiral’s ballpoint pen started clicking. “Glen, I got a call from a good sailor. Too bad they give them desk jobs. Known him since—”

Jericho politely coughed to break up what would become a prolonged monologue.

“Anyway your ship’s name is
Shindu Sagar.
Maritime commission’s already doing background. The tidbit came from a Brit frigate laying over for fuel. The crew was disappointed, as you might guess, as the sailors were hoping for liberty where…you know…the girls wear a little less and serve rum in coconuts.”

Jericho winced. Sorenson didn’t even venture a smile.

“There’s more to tell, ya’ll,” said Herndon.

“Not about shore leave,” she retorted.

“No, no, no! Just trying to tempt your Glen one more time about the navy!” Herndon laughed. “So this morning at about 0200, VHF starts squawking about a Mayday. Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two minutes later, a helicopter hammers over the frigate, rattling their bones. The Sea King’s heading out to get wet feet, and darn if the Brits don’t record the whole shebang!”

“Lucky break,” Jericho added.

“The freighter’s first officer’s hysterical.” Herndon continued, “Reports
men
overboard.”

“
Men
overboard?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. Tres amigos.”

“Seriously?”

“How about those apples?” laughed the admiral.

“Three men overboard?” Jericho needed to say it herself to believe it. The ship was a lumbering freighter. “Calm seas?”

“Moderate at best. No weather.” His pen was clicking furiously. “Get this. One’s el capitano.”

Jericho raised an eyebrow to see Sorenson ready to explode with questions.

“The helicopter inspected the ship then spent an hour checking the wake. Patrol boats too! Can you believe that?”

“Would a garnet laser have shown anything, Glen?” she inquired.

“Yes, Commander Jericho,” he replied, “if we’d known. Could possibly have caught the splashes.” He felt a disturbing sensation that another question was coming.

“That IR image you studied. It was close to the Mayday, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. The interval was narrow.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said.

“I know,” the admiral said. “Maybe they just lost the oscars.”

Jericho translated for Sorenson. “A nickname for dummies thrown overboard to practice search and rescue.”

“Oh.”

“It may look that way,” she theorized, “but that assumption conflicts with logic and the facts.”

“Go on, Commander,” said Herndon.

“You wouldn’t dump bodies approaching a port, especially in normal swells, and call for search and rescue. You’d pitch them in deeper water. They’re begging for an inquiry, even if the victims are weighted to sink. They didn’t find them, did they?”

“Probably not,” said Herndon.

The clicking pen made Sorenson frantic.

“So you think the crew killed them and sounded the alarm to make it look like an accident?”

“That makes no sense either…especially that close.” She looked at Sorenson. “Glen, you’re confident the man hanging off the stern was alive?”

“Seawater washing over a dead body would cool it promptly, so I suspect he was…ma’am,” he added.

“Elaine”—Jericho glared at the admiral. Realizing what he had just said made him only grin more—“would you call a Mayday with a body dangling off your stern?”

“Strange, don’t you think?” Even to a senior officer she knew well, speaking rhetorically with her junior civilian analyst present was disconcerting.

“Unless you didn’t know,” Sorenson interjected. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“That’s what I think too, son,” said the admiral, unfazed.

“So where are the bodies?” Jericho asked Sorenson.

“We know where one was…or is. That leaves two unaccounted for,” said Sorenson, again adding, “ma’am.”

“In the water, I reckon,” concluded the admiral.

Jericho wasn’t satisfied. “Still, the mystery is why. It’s got to be something to do with those containers.”

Strangely, the admiral’s pen had fallen silent. His fatigued grin came from years of work and worry. “Maybe we need to...”

Jericho held up her hand to silence him. “Glen, would you excuse us, please? We’re going to be talking a notch above for a bit. Thanks for your insights.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am. Admiral…” He jumped for the door and left.

“Smart guy,” said Herndon.

“Mastered in optics and lasers.”

“Don’t lose him.” His pen started clicking again. “Lainey, I’m thinking we’ve got too many questions. I’d call this a
hot item
. Warrants a spot on this week’s nuclear agenda. Expensive resources have been wagered. You know Priscilla doesn’t like unhappy endings.”

“So you’re reminding me
again
to be prepared?”

Jericho knew the woman well. Priscilla Rushworth was her superior in every regard. The CIA Division Chief and Chair of the Nuclear Committee arrayed her appointment like the winning sash at a beauty pageant. The woman demanded answers to any question she asked.

“That obsessive nature of yours assures it,” grinned Herndon.

“I won’t grate her, if that’s what you mean. Just facts and our best estimates,” said Jericho.

With a wrinkled brow, Herndon lowered his head. “Every picture has a story, Elaine. Question is what is going on
behind
the camera. One thing’s for certain: it’s usually bad. Terrorism’s darn dirty. No uniforms. No honor. The vilest of devils.” A gloom brushed across his face. “I’ve lived too long, I reckon.”