Wall of Night (23 page)

USS
Columbia,
Bay of Vrangel,
Russia

“Conn, Sonar: Bottom's coming up. Looks like we've got the shelf, Skipper.”

“How far, Sonar?” asked Kinsock.

“We still have three hundred feet under the keel.”

“Conn, aye.” Kinsock returned to the chart. Clustered around him were Jim MacGregor and Sconi Bob Jurens. “Gentlemen,” he whispered, “now it starts getting dicey. Sconi, if you guys want your tour money back, ask now.”

Jurens laughed. “How often does a man get a chance to invade Russia?”

“We're about to find out. Once we cross into their waters, it's the same thing as standing on their soil. So we're agreed: I'll put you two miles off the beach, you swim the rest.”

“Suits us fine. How long?”

“Best case: four hours. That's without much traffic overhead. We're gonna take it slow and quiet. If they catch us close in-shore, we'll have no room to maneuver.”

“How's the water temp?”

Kinsock glanced over his shoulder at the display. “Fifty-two degrees.”

“Ouch,” said MacGregor.

Kinsock replied, “Hell, that's warm for these parts.”

“Maybe so,” Jurens said, “but cold for
my
parts. Why don't you check into finding a tropical current for us, Archie. I'm gonna go roust my guys. Gimme a call when we're two hours out.”

Jurens and his men hauled their gear from the coat locker to the Officer's Wardroom, where they began final equipment checks.

Jurens watched each man as he worked.
We're okay,
he thought. Everybody's head was where it needed to be: Focused on the job, running through mental checklists, working through contingencies.

It was a fine line, Sconi knew, this premission “what if” game: What if the insertion goes wrong? What if somebody gets hurt? What if we lose part of the equipment load? The list is endless, and it inevitably includes the more unnerving questions about capture and death, which is when rehearsal goes from being constructive to destructive.

There was something about the human brain—caveman wiring, perhaps—that drew it to doom-and-gloom. The defense against “caveman wiring” was to exercise that long-held voodoo to which most operators secretly subscribe: Talk about coming back to the real world and that's what'll happen. So far it had worked for Jurens.

Smitty caught Jurens's smile. “What's up, Skipper?”

“Thinking about a big vanilla milk shake and a cheeseburger.”

“And about a pound of French fries.”

Dickie chimed in: “The hell with that. I'm thinking, crash the Playboy mansion, fill a Jacuzzi with grape Jell-O, and—”

“Whoa. Grape? That's sick. Now, raspberry I could see, but grape?”

“Grape is good for you, Skipper Good for your urinary tract, or digestion, or something.”

“I think they mean the real thing, Dickie—not Jell-O.”

“Hey, don't mess with the fantasy.”

From the other table, Zee broke in: “My kids.”

Jurens looked at him. “What, Zee?”

“That's what I'm looking forward to: Seeing my kids again.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Jurens clapped him on the shoulder. “Amen.”

Three hours later the bulkhead phone trilled and Jurens picked it up, said, “On my way,” then hung up. “We're there,” he announced. “Haul the gear to the escape trunk; I'll meet you.”

Jurens followed the passageway aft, then climbed the ladder and walked into the Control Room. Kinsock was standing before the backlighted Plexiglas status board. The room was quiet except for a few muffled voices. “How're we doing?” Jurens asked.

“As good as can be expected for being parked on Ivan's doorstep. Might have a problem. The current's running pretty fast—almost six knots and parallel to shore. Add to that our speed …”

“That's almost a riptide,” Jurens said.

“Welcome to springtime in the Sea of Japan. Once you're out of the trunk, the slipstream from the fairwater is going to beat you like a rented mule.”

Jurens considered this. Six knots didn't sound like much, but underwater, burdened with equipment, trying to keep the team together … “Ideas?”

“I could stop us dead, but you'd still have the current to deal with when you release.”

“Which escape trunk?”

“Your pick,” said Kinsock. “Go out the forward trunk and you get bounced off the sail if you lose your grip; aft trunk means you have to dodge the vertical stabilizer.”

“What about noise? At that speed, isn't the hatch going to cavitate when we open it?” Jurens asked, referring to the turbulence created by the current striking the hatch face. Such noise, however slight, might be detected by nearby sonar.

“We put dunce caps on them before we submerged. The current will slip right past 'em.”

“How about this: Steer her into the current—say at about four knots—and we'll go out the aft trunk. You turn abeam of the current, then we release and get dragged clear.”

“Sconi, even if we fast-fill the trunk, the first two guys out will have a two-minute wait That's a long time in the slipstream.”

Jurens grinned. “That's why they pay us the big money.”

“Well, I'll say this much: You've got a pair of brass ones. Just don't go banging up my boat, hear me? You scratch the paint, I'll have your ass.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Kinsock extended his hand. “Good luck. We'll be back for you in three days.”

“Glad to hear it My Russian isn't good enough for an extended stay.”

They stood together at the foot of the trunk ladder, checking one another's wet suits, making small adjustments, glancing at the overhead occasionally as each man went through his own premission ritual: Smitty plucking at the neoprene hood beside his left ear; Zee whistling silently and drumming his thighs; Dickie compulsively flexing his fingers inside his gloves.

They're ready,
Jurens thought
In the zone.
Good men.

Jim MacGregor leaned against the bulkhead, one hand resting on the sound-powered phone. “What's it gonna be when you get back, gentlemen? Coffee or hot chocolate?”

In unison, the team said, “Chicken soup.”

MacGregor laughed, and Jurens said, “Habit.”

The sound-powered phone trilled. MacGregor snatched it up, listened for half a minute, then hung up. “We're there. Conditions outside: Depth to the surface is thirty feet; you have a quarter moon, medium cloud cover, and light surface fog; water temperature is steady at fifty-one degrees—”

“Lost a degree,” Smitty muttered.

“—current is running fore to aft at six knots for a total of ten knots; no surface, subsurface, or visual contacts; the beach appears clear; sea state is five.”

Up from four,
Sconi thought.
Gonna be rough out there.

“Wind is gusting to twenty-five miles per hour, waves four to six feet, medium chop. That's it. Any questions?” MacGregor asked.

There were none.

“Master Chief, you're first.”

Jurens climbed the ladder into the trunk and sidestepped to allow room for Smitty. A pair of hands poked through the hatch with a large rucksack. Jurens took it. The hatch closed with a thud.

“I hate this part,” Smitty murmured.

“Yep,” Jurens replied.

“Going from one coffin to an even
smaller
coffin.”

“But then we're out in the big blue.”

“Thank God.”

They ducked under the bubble hood, a curved shell enveloping the upper third of the tank. During an emergency egress, this air pocket would be used by sailors to don their Steinke mask; in the SEALs's case, it allowed them to conserve the oxygen scrubbers on their rebreathers until they exited.

Inside the hood, Jurens could hear the muffled gurgle of the ocean outside
Columbia's
hull. He looked across at Smitty, who gave him a thumbs-up. Jurens reached down and pushed the Diver Ready button. Two seconds passed. The lights blinked out. They were in total darkness. A red battle lantern glowed to life.

From the bulkhead speaker, MacGregor's voice: “Divers stand by. I am flooding the tank.”

With a
whoosh,
the chamber began filling. Frothy water began climbing their legs.

“Divers, the tank is flooding.”

Jurens keyed the squawk box. “Confirm tank flooding.”

He felt the icy chill through his wet suit and could taste the metallic tang of compressed air around him. His ears began squealing. He worked his jaw until he got a
pop.
The pain receded. The water reached his thighs, then his crotch. He felt his testicles shrink into his belly.

With a sucking
plop,
the water enveloped the bubble hood.

The “Flood Complete” light flashed to green.

Jurens placed the regulator in his mouth and drew in a lungful of air; it was cold and coppery. He climbed the ladder to the outer hatch. Now came the hard part. With his feet braced against the ladder and his shoulders against the hatch, he turned the wheel and pushed it open.

Bubbles rushed past him and disappeared into the darkness. With a
clunk,
the hatch popped into the locked position. He poked his head through.

Half-expecting to get the slipstream in the face, he was surprised to feel nothing: The dunce cap was doing its job. He was surrounded by blackness; errant bits of phosphorescent plankton zipped past his mask, and for a dizzying moment he felt like he were hurtling through a star-filled void.

He clipped his D-ring to the cleat then climbed out and laid himself flat on the hull. The current tugged at the edges of his body. He could feel the throbbing of
Columbia's
engines.

Smitty appeared, clipped his D-ring to the cleat, then down the length of Jurens's body until he, too, was lying flat on the deck. Jurens felt a double squeeze on his calf:
Secure.
He reached forward and closed the hatch.

The slipstream hit them full force. Sconi could feel it rippling around him, tugging at his limbs, trying to dislodge him. Ahead, in the blackness he could make out the shadow of
Columbia's
fairwater.

They waited, clinging to the hull until finally the hatch opened again. A hand appeared out of the opening; Jurens took the proffered D-ring and locked it into place.

The process was repeated until Zee and Dickie were clinging to the hull behind Jurens and Smitty. Jurens felt another squeeze on his calf—
all secure
—then reached into the hatch, dragged out their two equipment bags, and locked them down before closing the hatch.

Jurens glanced at his watch.
Come on,
Archie,
turn this thing
…

Suddenly he felt a shiver run through the hull. The fair-water began tilting to port, banking like the stabilizer of some great aircraft Jurens started counting.
Four one-thousand,
five one-thousand
…

Behind him, as planned, each man was sequentially releasing his grip on the boat and grasping the next man's ankles. Jurens strained under the weight
Seven one-thousand
…
eight
…
Now
!

He let go.

Washington,
D.C.

The cover-up—a term that Latham reluctantly decided applied to what he and Holystone were doing—went relatively smoothly.

In the aftermath of the running gun battle with the Zis, he'd sat on his stairway, staring at the body of Grandpa Zi. In death, the man hadn't looked the least bit dangerous.

Cahil had arrived twenty minutes later, taken the Zis' keys and left. He called fifteen minutes later. “Found it, Charlie. About a quarter mile away. I've got the registration; the name looks bogus, but the address looks genuine. This thing has been sanitized. The plates looked altered and all the VIN tags are missing. I'm going through it once more, then head over to the address.”

“Thanks, Bear.”

“No problem. You okay?”

“A little shaky.”

“You've got a right to be. Talk to you later.”

Latham called Dutcher and filled him in. “Cahil's going to check the address.”

“Okay,” Dutcher said. “Two things: Which cell phone are you using?”

“One of yours.”

“Good. Once you and Paul have your stories straight, use your home phone to call the police. What're you going to tell them?”

“I was out late, came home, and was attacked by unknown assailants. I killed one of them and my partner killed the other. I'll have to tell Harry a little more than that, but he'll back me.”

Within the hour, the house was buzzing with activity as crime-scene specialists, a homicide detective from the Montgomery County sheriff's office, and the medical examiner went about their work. Owens sat with Latham as the inspector interviewed him. “So you and your partner were doing … what?” asked the inspector. “Having a beer, right?”

“Right.”

“At Finnegan's in Chevy Chase?”

“Right.”

“You get a call from your neighbor about a leak and hurry home. Your partner follows to see if he can help, you pull into the garage and … ”

For the third time, Latham took him through the confrontation.

“You have no idea who these people are?”

“No.”

As the lie came off his lips, Latham felt a twinge of guilt, but he suppressed it: This was his case; these people had invaded his house, tried to kill him—and would have killed his family had they been here. This case belonged to him.

The inspector asked a few more questions, then left to supervise the CS team.

Once alone, Owens asked, “Is this them, Charlie?”

Latham nodded. “I'm pretty sure. We were calling them Grandpa and Grandpa Zi. Harry, they were hunting for me—maybe Bonnie and the kids, too.”

“You must have struck a nerve. Is your story going to hold up?”

“Bonnie and Paul are clear and Finnegan's is always busy. My worry is the press. If the
Guoanbu
gets wind of this, they'll shut down whatever they've got cooking.”

“I'll talk to the sheriff and the ME. I'll tell them we think it might have something to do with a former case of yours and we need time to dig into it. They'll probably identify them only as ‘unidentified intruders.'”

“Good.”

“Let's say you're right and these two killed the Bakers … have you figured out why?”

“How much do you want to know?”

“Just tell me if you're getting close. I can keep running interference, but not for much longer.”

“We're getting close, Harry. Real close.”

It was nearly dawn when everyone finished their work and left. The ME was the last to go, wheeling the sheet-covered body of Grandpa Zi out the front door. Randall arrived a few minutes later.

As Latham got into the car, he asked Randall, “How is she?”

“Alive, but just barely. Her brain's mush, Charlie.”

Latham could hear the anguish in Paul's voice. This was only the second time he'd fired his weapon outside the range; the last time had been the previous year during a raid of a terrorist safe house. The difference was, this had been a woman—an old woman, at that.

He squeezed Randall's shoulder. “She would have killed me, Paul. Bonnie and the kids, too, if they'd been here—just like the Bakers.”

“Yeah, I guess. But, God, she's just—”

“Listen: Old lady or not, she was a killer, plain and simple.”

Randall swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah, you're right. Okay, where to?”

“Holystone.”

Dutcher and the others were waiting in the conference room. The first tinges of sunlight were filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Oaken sat before a computer perched at the edge of the table. Everyone stood clustered behind him.

Dutcher looked up as Latham walked in. “How'd it go?”

“I think we're okay. They'll want to talk to me again, but Harry's going to cover me.” He nodded at the computer. “From the Zis' house?”

Cahil nodded. “Walt's trying to break their security program.”

A thought flashed into Latham's head. “Walt, stop.”

“What?”

“Tell me about the program.” Oaken did so. “Sounds like the same setup Baker's computer had,” Charlie said.

“You broke it?”

“One of our tech people did. Lemme make some calls.”

Latham called Whulford at home, who got dressed, drove to the Hoover Building, and looked up James Washington's phone number. It was five-fifteen when Latham made the call.

A groggy voice answered. “Yeah, hello.”

“James, this is Charlie Latham. I don't know if you remember me—”

“Yes, sir, of course. What can I do for you?”

“Sorry about the time, but I need your expertise. The hitch is, you can't tell anybody about it.”

“Is this about your daughter? Something to do with that?”

“Yes.”

“Then we never talked. What's up?”

“I've run into another version of the security program you broke for me. Can you help?”

“No problem.”

“Here, I'll give you to the guy you'll be talking through it.”

Thirty minutes later, it was done. The contents of the Zis' hard drive was transferred to Oaken's hard drive. Oaken pulled up the new directory on the screen. “Not much here …” he said, scanning the file names. “Hold on … what's this?”

“What?” Dutcher asked.

“This folder's got about twenty gigabytes of ASF files in it.”

“Which means?”

“ASF is a video format.” Oaken clicked open the folder. “This could be something. Dates, times, locations … Looks like they go back six or seven years. When were the Bakers killed?”

Latham told him.

“Jesus, that's the label on this file.”

Dutcher leaned closer. “Let's see it.”

The on-screen counter told them the video was forty minutes long, but after only five minutes, they'd seen enough. “Shut it off, Walt,” Dutcher whispered. “My God.”

“Why would they tape it?” Cahil murmured. “What possible use could it be?”

“We'll never know,” Latham said. “He's dead, and if she survives, she'll likely be a vegetable.”

Dutcher said, “What else, Walt?”

“There's a couple dozen files. None look more than a few minutes long. You guys go grab some breakfast; I'll sort through them.”

Twenty minutes later Oaken called them back into his office. “I started from most recent and worked my way backward. They taped a lot of meetings with Baker. They always used the same setup: Grandma Zi did the face-to-face stuff, Grandpa Zi taping. But take a look at this one … ” Oaken double-clicked on a file. The screen filled with snow, then turned into a shot of a parking ramp at night.

“That looks like a metrorail platform,” Latham said.

“My guess, too,” Oaken replied. “Shot from ground level, out a car window. Take a look at the person meeting Grandma Zi.”

The camera zoomed in on the platform until they could make out two figures standing at the railing. The dull yellow light from the streetlamps illuminated their faces. After a few moments, the camera zoomed in.

“There's no sound?” Cahil asked.

“No. They probably deleted it. More deniability that way.”

“Okay, that's Grandma Zi. I can't make out the other person.”

“Wait … here it comes … ”

The other face, this one belonging to a man in his early sixties, swam into focus.

“Name that face, anyone?” Oaken asked.

“I can,” said Dutcher. “Howard Bousikaris, chief of staff to President Phillip Martin.”

Before anyone could react, Oaken's phone rang. He answered it, then handed it to Dutcher, who listened, then hung up and turned to Tanner. “Mason. He wants to see us. Walt, you'd better come, too. How long will it take to transfer all the Zis' files to a laptop?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Do it.”

Tanner asked, “What's going on, Leland?”

“They just deciphered Soong's message.”