The Icarus Prediction: Betting it all has its price (20 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Arabian Sea

Captain Liev Arnot stood on the flying bridge of the INS
Herev
drinking in the last breaths of salt sea air he would enjoy for some time to come. The night sky was brilliant with stars before the moonrise as the
Herev
cruised on gentle seas at five knots, its dark silhouette leaving only the trace of a wake.

He looked down at the aft deck to see five of his crew members taking their final break, for who knew when they’d be able to come back up for air?

He stared at the electronic mast beside him. In the old days, he would be on deck with his sextant and chronometer, plotting their position the old-fashioned way. Nowadays you pushed a button, and the GPS computer spat out their exact location. The thirty-five-year-old skipper mused he was getting much too old for this line of work.

The vessel under him was a Dolphin-class submarine forged in the Howaldtswerke-Deutsche-Werft shipyard in Kiel. The pride of the Israeli Navy, it was a supreme irony it had been constructed in the same shipyard that had launched so many Nazi U-boats. But much of the cost of this vessel had been underwritten by the German government as reparations for the Holocaust.

At 183 feet in length, it was much smaller than the American nuclear subs, but still capable. Powered by a diesel engine on the surface, when it submerged, it was propelled by a Siemens proton exchange membrane fuel cell that required no exterior air supply, enabling it to travel stealthily under the surface for three weeks at a time. On this voyage, the boat carried five officers and twenty-two crew, plus five technicians who would apply their ministrations to the supremely sophisticated weaponry of the
Herev
(“the Sword”).

Arnot was procrastinating, he knew, for once they buttoned up, no one could know how this deadly business would play out. Even so, it was time to get on with it.

“Clear the bridge and deck,” ordered the captain.

The coxswain muttered into his microphone, and the crewmembers began disappearing silently down the hatch on the aft deck.

Arnot’s small and wiry body (always a good thing for a submariner) went down the ladder with ease and into the cramped bridge as the coxswain pulled the hatch down and secured the wheel.

“Sail and aft hatches secure, Captain,” said the officer of the deck.
“I have the conn.”

“Captain has the conn,” echoed the deck officer.

“Extinguish night lights.”

The interior bridge had been illuminated with red lights to preserve the night vision of the crew. But now that they were buttoned up, the lighting returned to normal.

“Crew count?” Mustn’t leave anyone on deck.

The officer of the deck murmured into his headset. “Everyone accounted for, Captain.”

“Position?”

The navigator checked his GPS plot with the readout from the back up star-tracker and radiometric sextant. “Sir, our position is twenty-four degrees, seven minutes north; sixty-three degrees, eighteen minutes east; seventy-eight nautical miles due south of the Pakistani coast, heading two-five-three degrees, speed five knots. Inertial guidance is updated and slaved to sea floor terrain map coordinates.”

The captain looked at a liquid crystal display that depicted a 3D image of the
Herev
hovering above the undersea terrain map.

“Sonar?”

“Only contact is merchant vessel, bearing three-two-eight degrees. Google vessel tracker indicates it is the
Ming Po
out of Shanghai, an oil tanker of 35,000 deadweight tons en route from Hormuz to Mumbai. Range seventeen nautical miles.”

Tracking commercial surface vessels used to be difficult. Now anybody could do it via satellites and the Internet.

“Engineering?” queried the captain.

“Diesel fuel reserve at 83 percent. Fuel cell hydrogen reserves at 94 percent. All systems operational.”

“Navigation, what’s the situation on overflights?”

The navigator checked his computer. “We will be in the American White Cloud envelope pass in forty-three minutes. The American Lacrosse radar satellite is two hours, fourteen minutes away; and the Russian optical Black Amber is fourteen minutes out.”

Arnot knew the White Cloud satellites were passive, meaning they circled the globe looking for telltale radio emissions from warships. Since the
Herev
was maintaining radio silence, that would not be an issue. The Lacrosse satellite was another matter. With its synthetic aperture radar, it could discern the
Herev
’s profile, even at night and through clouds. In the naval reconnaissance center in the Pentagon, this would pop up as a bogey on the massive plot board and invite further inquiry from the United States Navy. Not a good thing at this point. But that was two hours away and not a problem.

The Russian Black Amber satellite was something to contend with. A low-orbiting bird with optical and infrared sensors, it could pick up a grainy image of the
Herev
that the Russians might be inclined to pass on to their customers, which were not always Israel’s friends.

In other words, it was time to disappear.

“Engineering, switch to fuel cell drive.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Dive, dive, dive. Helm, take us down to fifty fathoms, thirty degrees on the planes. Get us under the thermocline. Navigation, lay in a course for Hormuz at seven knots.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The gurgling sound of ballast being blown filled the cramped chamber as the deck pitched forward. Arnot reached up to grab the handhold at the captain’s station.
On the surface, an apron of bubbles surged around the
Herev
’s conning tower as the vessel quietly slipped into the black depths, as if it had never been there in the first place.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Tbilisi, Georgia

The Mtkvari Bar was in the old part of the city and a stark counterpoint to the modern glass and steel hotel they’d just left. Using standard Agency protocol, they had arrived an hour early and had done a reconnaissance on the exterior, hoping they didn’t bump into one of the station chief’s underlings doing the same thing.

After the recon, Jarrod entered and surveyed the dimly lit, smoky chamber. Given the clientele that stared back at him, he sort of felt like he’d stepped into the Star Wars bar on Tatooine. Beefy roughnecks, all of whom seemed to be wearing a scar of some kind, were in the company of strung-out entrepreneurs in the drug trade and their down-market hookers. They eyeballed the intruder in the Armani sports jacket as he strode to a rear booth, cognizant he was woefully overdressed. He slid into the seat and quickly sent Sarah a text to come inside.

A band consisting of an electric guitar, drums, and a saxophone struck up a dissonant tune he couldn’t recognize.

Sarah entered, and even more heads turned. Sara received particularly envious appraisals from the ladies of the night. She went to the rear and slid in across from him.

He sighed. “Guess I’m out of training. I forgot intel sources typically don’t hang out at the Four Seasons.”

She shrugged. “Actually, this is pretty upscale to what I’ve seen in Islamabad.”

The barkeep lumbered over, wearing a T-shirt with a beer stain among other less discernible stains and asked for an order.

Sarah replied in Georgian, and shortly thereafter two glasses of the house red appeared. Despite the seedy surroundings, Jarrod was pleasantly surprised by the taste of the native Georgian vino.

“Not bad.”

Sarah took a sip and said, ‘Georgia has been wine country for over a millennium. Soil, climate, and sunshine that rivals Napa Valley. So how do you know this Rick Edgerton?”

Jarrod shrugged. “We were both in Somalia. It was a mess—a patchwork of tribal warfare. We were funneling money and guns to various factions to keep them fighting each other so they wouldn’t have the ability to act as a safe haven for other terrorist groups that would be targeting us.”

“You mean, we weren’t trying to build a Jeffersonian democracy there?”

“No. Just trying to keep our own Jeffersonian democracy intact. Like me, Rick was a junior guy running errands for senior case officers who were dealing with the rival tribes. Rick and I bumped into each other from time to time in Mogadishu, which is a real swill pit, by the way.”

“And that’s where you got your Blue Heart?”

He nodded. “My case officer’s tribe got wind we were dealing with the other side. I was posted as an off-camera security watchdog during a meet. Standard procedure. We were out in the bush. Two trucks roll up and throw my case officer in. We were too far in the boonies to use the radio to call for backup, so I followed at a distance. It was obvious by the route they were taking that they were headed for a base camp I’d visited before. So I hung back, hid the vehicle, and went in by foot.”

“What happened then?”

Jarrod couldn’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, I come up on this base camp, and they’ve got my case officer tied to a stake as they stack kindling and bush all around him.”

“You mean they were going to burn him at the stake?”

“Exactly. Just like in the movies. Well, I figured I had about five minutes before my case officer did a bad imitation of a rotisserie chicken. All I had on me was an M-16 and a sidearm, so I wasn’t going to shoot it out with thirty or forty hostiles. But I had made a delivery of munitions there before, and I knew where their ammo dump was. So I snuck around to the other end of the camp, and there were boxes of ammo and RPG rounds stacked up, along with some jerry cans of gasoline.”

“Gasoline and munitions stored together?”

“Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? And the guard who was posted had left to watch the festivities. So I break open one of the jerry cans, liberally douse the munitions, and then…”

“And then?”

“Did I mention they also had the foresight to include a crate of magnesium flares?”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. I pop the flare, toss it on the pile, and dive into the bush. In thirty seconds, the place is lit up like the Washington Mall on the Fourth of July. Everybody’s shooting everywhere, diving for cover. RPG rounds were cooking off like Roman candles. So in the melee, I run to the stake and cut the case officer free, and we bust ass out of there. On the way out, he takes an errant round in the calf, and I have to heave him over my shoulder to carry him to the hidden jeep. And we made it back in one piece—or rather with only a small piece missing.”

Sarah nodded. “So that was your Blue Heart?”

Jarrod shrugged. “My case officer was headed back to Langley anyway to take a promotion. I have a feeling he may have embellished the story when he got back to headquarters to enhance his own reputation. In any case, I was summoned to the basement in Langley and got to wear the medal for an hour or so. Then it was off to Afghanistan and then to Beirut.”

Sarah looked up. “I think our guy is here.”

A slender man of medium height entered. His dark hair was thinning and his full beard was flecked with gray. Jarrod turned and raised a hand, and the new arrival made a beeline for the booth. Jarrod slid out, and they shook hands vigorously.

“Jarrod—what a surprise! It’s been years.”

“That it has. Too long.” He motioned to the seat and said, “Let’s have a drink.”

Edgerton’s gaze fell on Sarah, and Jarrod was pleased to see her raw beauty had the desired effect as he slid in next to her.

A drink was delivered, and Edgerton was clearly curious, as his body language was a little arm’s length. “Well, Stryker, what brings you to the crazy Caucasus? Is this a social call?”

“Hardly. But before we get into that, may I introduce Sarah Kashvilli.”
“Hello, Rick,” she said cordially, as she placed her CIA credentials on the table.

It took a moment to cognate as he studied the credentials, but then Edgerton glanced back at Jarrod and then back to the brunette. “Sarah Kashvilli? Not
the
Sarah Kashvilli?”

She sipped her wine. “Depends on which one you mean.”

Jarrod interjected. “If you mean the double Blue Heart recipient, this is she.”

Sarah watched as the cogs turned in his brain.

“Those things are supposed to stay under cover, but word gets around. I hear they call you the Lone Rangerette. The only double Blue Heart who lived to tell the tale.”

She shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”

Edgerton’s gaze shifted. “Jarrod, forgive me, but I’m a little confused. I also heard that years ago you were, ah…”

“Cashiered out of the Agency? Absolutely. Terribly messy spectacle.”

“In Beirut, I heard.”

“Precisely,” said Sarah. “In fact, I was there and helped engineer the whole deception.”

Jarrod read the confusion on his face and smiled. “Rick, it was all part of a cover story. Terrorism is more about money than anything else these days. The Agency made the decision to insert their own people within the financial industry, and because I had an MBA…”

“From Harvard,” injected Sarah.

Jarrod demurred. “Yes, well, because of that credential I was inserted at Blackenford Capital, where I run the energy trading desk. My employer has no knowledge of my Agency connection, but in my capacity as a civilian trader, I traffic in the Saudi world quite a bit and have already fingered two al-Qaeda paymasters who have been…neutralized by the Saudis.”

“Well, anyone Sarah can vouch for, I can vouch for. So what do I owe the honor of this visit?” asked Edgerton.

Jarrod leaned forward. “Shamil Basayev.”

“Ah, quite the topic of discussion around here, I must say. On some levels, he’s a folk hero, but on another, he has pissed off the Georgians royally because that pipeline is a sweet revenue source. I daresay truncheons are working overtime at the interior ministry. But, how are you two involved in the hunt for Shamil Basayev?”

As rehearsed, Jarrod and Sarah looked at each other, as if they were about to impart a grave, dark secret.

Sarah said, “Rick, this is as black as black ops get, but there is more to this Basayev business than meets the eye.”

Jarrod chimed in, “As you know, the Georgian pipeline provides a huge portion of Israel’s petroleum. There are some things happening off camera that if this pipeline gets torched could implode the peace process with the Palestinians.”

Now Sarah leaned forward. “We are on a special detail for the deputy director of operations to canvas all stations in the theater to see if there’s anything else that can be done to track him down. Jarrod got pulled in because of his energy connections—and you and he had worked together before.”

Edgerton shrugged. “Well, I don’t know anything that can be done that isn’t being done. The people of the Trans-Caucasus have a long and deep hatred of the Russians. The whole region still behind Russian borders is in a defacto state of civil war with Moscow. Chechnya was just louder. I met with the Georgians, and they have some sharp agents in their interior ministry police. They expressed a desire for a couple of staff to join the forensic team that just arrived at the pumping station in Russia that Basayev took out. But relations being what they are between Moscow and Tbilisi, that request was turned down.”

“What if we could arrange it?” asked Jarrod.

Edgerton’s eyebrow went up. “Are you serious? They’d have to fly to Cyprus, then maybe Poland to go in via the back door.”

“We have a Gulfstream parked at the airport. I may be able to arrange clearance and a direct flight to the scene for you, us, and the Georgians.”

Edgerton gave a low whistle. “This must be some kind of hot potato if you’re pulling that kind of juice. Did you see the updated report I sent a few hours ago?”

Sarah shook her head. “We just landed and are staying under radar. We don’t have access to secure communications in transit. We’ll come to your office tomorrow morning and read it there.”

“In the meantime,” said Jarrod, “tell your Georgian contacts to saddle up. We’ll plan on going wheels-up tomorrow afternoon.”

Edgerton whistled. “This is turning into some kinda rodeo.”

“By the way,” said Sarah. “I’ll need access to your communications room tomorrow to send an eyes-only message to the assistant DDO.”

“Sure.”

“Rick, do you have any touch points into Chechnya that are not in the file? Formal or informal?”

He shook his head. “Just the Merchant source, and that’s in the file. He’s a low-level guy, little more than a gopher, really. He’s in a Chechen splinter group. His motivation is strictly monetary, but he doesn’t seem to be blowing smoke. He floats back and forth erratically from Chechnya to Georgia via Azerbaijan. I missed the last meeting when I was back in the States.”

“OK,” said Jarrod with a yawn. “Well, we’ve got jet lag, and we’ve got a long day tomorrow. We’ll hit your door in the morning and hopefully have flight clearances by noon.”

“OK, see you at the embassy in the morning.”

Jarrod paid the tab, and they all walked out together. Edgerton hailed a cab. After they bade farewell, he turned to Sarah and said, “You should have been an actress.”

She gave him a disdainful look. “Actress, smacktress. Just how the hell do you intend to get clearance for us to fly from Georgia into Russian airspace? There are probably six thousand antiaircraft missiles pointed our way.”

Jarrod didn’t answer but pulled out his global cell phone and hit a speed dial button. A few seconds elapsed before someone answered, and he said, “Sergei, I don’t know what kind of strings you can pull from your former life in the old country, but I need you to pull one
very
hard.”