Operation Barracuda sc-2 Page 6

  Morris Cooper leaned forward. “Is that some kind of accusation, Lambert? You think one of us—?”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Senator Coldwater said. “No one’s blaming anyone in here.”

  Lambert took a breath and continued. “I have a man tracking down the Shop’s known directors as we speak. We have successfully identified them and we are hot on their trails.”

  “I’m happy to hear that, Colonel,” Cooper said.

  Darrell Blake came to Lambert’s defense. “The FBI is looking for these men as well. What’s the CIA doing?”

  “Oh, we’re on the lookout, don’t you worry,” Cooper said. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms.

  Senator Coldwater nodded. “Fine. At any rate, gentlemen, nothing has been decided yet. The budget is still being broken down and analyzed. Colonel, I will take your words under advisement. Let’s move on.” She then nodded at Admiral Colgan.

  The naval officer cleared his throat and spoke. “Senator Coldwater, gentlemen, thank you for allowing me and my colleague, Charles Kay — you all know Charlie, the director of SeaStrike Technologies?”

  Some of them shook their heads. Lambert had heard of him but never met the man. SeaStrike Technologies was a subsidiary of a major defense corporation that researched and developed tools and weaponry for the U.S. Navy.

  “SeaStrike Technologies has been working with the navy for several years now on our MRUUV project. You’re all familiar with that.”

  Lambert nodded. So that was what this was about. The MRUUV program had been initiated by the Naval Sea Systems Command to research and develop the technology necessary to create a Mission-Reconfigurable Unmanned Undersea Vehicle — the MRUUV — capable of being launched from the twenty-one-inch torpedo tube that is standard on all U.S. Navy submarines. The last Lambert had heard about the project was that SeaStrike was close to realizing its completion.

  “Charlie, why don’t you tell everyone what you came here to say?” Colgan asked.

  Kay nervously pulled on his shirt collar and then spoke with the clarity of a scientist. “At the heart of the MRUUV project is that it’s the evolutionary development of the tube-launched long-range mine reconnaissance system, or the LMRS. We intend for it to be launched from a Virginia-class or Los Angeles-class attack submarine for clandestine ISR, as well as mine neutralization and tactical ocean survey.”

  Lambert’s interest perked up. ISR stood for “intelligence collection, surveillance, and reconnaissance”—just the stuff that was Third Echelon’s expertise.

  Kay stood and moved to the covered easel. He removed the drape to reveal a rendering of a sleek, tubular rod with various sensors and probes sticking out of it.

  “This is our MRUUV,” he said. “It is mission-reconfigurable and offers advantages over single-mission UUVs because submarine torpedo spaces are too small to carry separate twenty-one-inch UUVs for each mission. By reconfiguring sensor packages and other mission payloads on the UUV either inside the submarine or at a support facility ashore, the mission payload can be optimized for the submarine’s overall mission.” Kay pointed to the rendering with his pencil. “The Flight 1 MRUUV has a diameter of twenty-one inches and weighs approximately twenty-eight hundred pounds. It will capitalize on the BLQ-11 long-range mine reconnaissance system to provide an initial ISR capability for current SSNs. It’s operated from its mother sub and it communicates directly to the sub or indirectly via satellite communications with other nodes. The system uses its mother sub’s navigation systems for mission planning and is capable of receiving mission updates from the Global Positioning System. The real beauty about it is that the MRUUV can use modular payloads that can be swapped out.”

  Kay turned and then smiled at everyone in the room. “And I’m happy to say that our prototype is complete and ready for testing.”

  There were some murmurs of congratulations but no applause.

  “So let me get this straight,” Cooper said. Kay turned his attention to the CIA man. “You’re telling us that thing can carry weapons? We could put a nuclear device on it and deliver it to a coastal city with utmost discretion?”

  “Theoretically, yes,” Kay answered.

  “Then that’s pretty sharp,” Cooper said.

  “Yes, we’re all pleased with how it turned out.” Kay returned to his seat. “We’re hoping that the test runs can commence as soon as possible.”

  Admiral Colgan regained the floor. “That said, we’ve come here to alert the Committee that tests cannot commence due to what may be a serious security breach with regard to the MRUUV program.”

  The rest of the group waited for the admiral to continue. Colgan eyed Kay again and nodded.

  Kay cleared his throat and swallowed. “The problem is that the lead physicist on the project, Professor Gregory Jeinsen, has been missing for a week. He didn’t report for work last Monday. When an investigation was made, Professor Jeinsen was nowhere to be found.”

  “I’ve never heard of this Jeinsen,” Morris Cooper said. “Who is he?”

  Colgan answered. “Professor Jeinsen is an East German scientist who defected to the U.S. in the early seventies. He’s worked for the Pentagon in various capacities but mostly in weapons development.”

  “I knew him personally,” Kay said. “And worked side by side with him, of course. He’s an honest and brilliant man. An American citizen.”

  “And what’s been done to find him?” Cooper asked.

  “The D.C. police searched his apartment. It looked completely normal. It appeared that Professor Jeinsen had simply got out of bed one morning, left the place, and never returned. His things are still there. Nothing is missing, as far as the police can tell. If there’s a suitcase or some clothes gone, it’s difficult to say. The police have a missing persons bulletin out on him but there are no clues yet.”

  Darrell Blake spoke up. “Our agency was alerted two days after the professor didn’t show up for work. The FBI is now on the case and is looking into every possibility. We can’t rule out that Professor Jeinsen met with some kind of foul play. I’m afraid it’s beginning to look like that is what indeed has happened.”

  “You mean he’s been kidnapped?” Lewis asked.

  Blake shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Colgan continued. “What troubles us is not only the good professor’s safety but also the fact that Professor Jeinsen had complete access to the MRUUV program. He was the man in charge of it. If the professor happens to find himself in enemy hands, well, the results could compromise our work on the project. It could be a very serious blow to our defense strategies.”

  The senator spoke next. “Thank you, gentlemen. A file has been prepared on the professor. You will all receive copies before we leave here today. I’d like all of you to look into this. The FBI is already doing what they can. I want the CIA and NSA to give this situation top priority. This is an order that comes from the president himself. Find Professor Jeinsen.”

  8

  Home again.

  The day after my nocturnal visit to General and Mrs. Prokofiev’s house in Moscow, Lambert ordered me to come back to the States. My job in Russia and Ukraine was finished.

  It turned out Mrs. Prokofiev wasn’t kidding when she said she’d kill her husband. She certainly tried. As soon as he walked in the front door, she shot him with the Winchester rifle. The bullet entered his body just below the Adam’s apple and severed his spine on the way out. For good measure she shot him again in the head. The general was rushed to the hospital but it’s looking as if we can write him off. He’ll live but only as something akin to a rutabaga. Poor Mrs. Prokofiev was arrested and will no doubt go to prison or perhaps die for her crime, but her words to the police were that “the bastard deserved it.” Hopefully at the very least she will gain some personal satisfaction from her deed.

  Oskar Herzog, the Shop director who was with Prokofiev at the Obukhiv hangar, has disappeared. He’s probably gone to wherever Andrei Zdrok and Anton Antipov are hiding. I’
m sure when Lambert finds out where they are, that will be the destination of my next “business trip.”

  In the meantime it’s good to be back in Towson, Maryland, where I live in a town house much too large for a single man in his forties. I have three floors in which to spread out and I must say it’s pretty nice when one leads a solitary existence. I indulge myself in a few simple pleasures such as a supersized flat-screen television and a decent collection of DVDs. I prefer old westerns and war movies. I keep a library of reference material in the lower floor and that’s also where my home office is. I don’t read a lot of fiction. I mostly study the countries of the world, trying to keep abreast of everything that’s happening politically and economically, especially in the so-called hot spots. Knowing who’s really on your side and who’s not is a primary task when you’re out in the field. So every day I try to learn something new about a place. It keeps me on my toes.

  I’m conveniently three blocks away from I-695 and can do most of my food shopping at a market a block away on York Road. My Krav Maga class meets in the same strip mall. My instructor, Katia Loenstern, left me an intriguing message on my answering machine.

  “There’s going to be a special class on Thursday and I’d really like you to be there,” she had said. “Please.”

  Well, it’s Thursday, so I change into my jumpsuit for the workout. I grab a small gym bag to carry a towel and an extra T-shirt, and I’m ready to go. It’s still winter in Maryland so I wear a slick red ski jacket and set out on the five-minute walk from my subdivision. But before I shut the front door and lock it, I hear the house phone ring. I keep two phone lines — one has an unlisted number that’s for personal use. Friends and family — what little of them I have — use that number. The other phone is a secure line to Third Echelon.

  Since not many people have my home number, I can usually bet that a caller is not a telemarketer but instead someone I don’t mind talking to. I rush back inside and grab the phone in the kitchen, which is on the ground floor next to the front door.

  “Fisher,” I answer.

  “Dad!”

  I feel my smile stretch across my face. It’s worth turning around and coming back into the house to get a phone call from my daughter, Sarah.

  “How are you, honey?”

  “I’m fine. It’s cold here. You got snow?” In my mind’s eye I picture her at five or six years old, which isn’t the case anymore. It’s hard for me to accept the fact that she’s no longer a little girl.

  “No, it’s melted but it’s cold outside. I was just about to walk over to my gym class. How’s school?”

  “Good. You know why I’m calling, don’t you?”

  I think for a second. “Um, because you love your dad and just wanted to hear his voice?”

  She laughs with her unique girl-giggle that tugs at my heart. “No, silly. Well, sure, that’s true, too, but I called to wish you Happy Birthday!”

  Damn. I nearly forgot. My friggin’ birthday is tomorrow. I chuckle and shake my head. It figures that it conveniently slipped my mind.

  “So why don’t you call me tomorrow, too?”

  “Well, I’m in school all day and then I have play rehearsal tomorrow night.”

  “Right.”

  “So, here goes!” She starts to sing the stupid song and I laugh some more. When she’s done, I thank her profusely.

  “You should be getting something in the mail,” she says. “I gotta run. You gonna be home for a while now that you’re back?”

  “I hope so. At least until my next overseas sales conference.”

  She snorts. “Yeah, right. We wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

  Sarah knows what I do. I was able to keep it from her for a long time until the incident last year, when the Shop got hold of her. With the loss of innocence comes the responsibility of living life as the child of a Splinter Cell.

  We chat for another minute, send each other our love, and hang up. As an afterthought, I kiss my index finger and touch her photo that’s held on my refrigerator door by a magnet. Then I head out the door once again.

  As Splinter Cells go, I’m fortunate that I’m not assigned to a static location. Most of the other Splinter Cells are stationed in parts of the world where I certainly wouldn’t want to stay all the time. I guess I have a special position within Third Echelon. Being the first Splinter Cell and an agent who can adapt easily to just about any place they send me, I’m more useful as a “contractor.” In the old days, spies were often diplomats or embassy intelligence officers stationed in the country where they did the spying. With Third Echelon, though, the Splinter Cells are guys who have no affiliation with the U.S. government — at least they don’t in a public sense. I’ve used numerous cover identities when I’m on a job and I have to sometimes learn trades and skills to make the cover more legitimate. At any rate, it’s nice to be able to come home between assignments in order to see Sarah.

  Third Echelon sure beats the CIA, which is where I worked before Colonel Lambert recruited me. In the CIA I had to spy in the traditional way — usually posing as a diplomat or someone in an official capacity. Later on I moved to a stateside job in weapons development. I thought I came up with some pretty good theoretical work on information warfare but the bureaucratic machine always managed to hamper my creativity. I’ve always been and will continue to be a man of action until my health or age prevents me from doing the job. Right now I’m pushing fifty. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have with Third Echelon before they forcibly retire me, but you can bet I’ll stay until they do. I don’t really know what I’ll do with myself without the work. I truly believe it keeps me young. It’s something about the danger, the thrill of the hunt, the most dangerous game. When your life is on the line, not to mention the lives of your countrymen, it tends to keep the adrenaline flowing. And I’m addicted to that rush.

  I reach the strip mall and go inside the small dance studio that Katia rents for her class. She’s already there, limbering up, and I’m not surprised to see that we’re the only two people in the place. I’m usually the first to arrive.

  “Sam!” she says as she bends her torso over her left leg and pulls on her foot. As usual, she’s dressed in a leotard and tights. It’s impossible not to notice her spectacular long legs. “I’m glad you’re back. How was the trip?”

  “Busy,” I say as I place my gym bag on the floor next to the big mirror on the wall. “Where is everyone?”

  She smiles flirtatiously. “I guess they’re late. Go ahead and warm up and then you and I’ll get started.”

  I start in on my stretches as I watch her. Katia, as I’ve mentioned before, is an Israeli-American and she’s extremely attractive. She’s thirty-six and keeps very fit and buff. She’s got great brown eyes, a long nose, and a wonderful pouty mouth. Her long, curly dark hair flows wildly around her head unless she ties it into a ponytail. Even then the hair is so curly it just sticks out in a bunch rather than hanging like a true ponytail. I think it’s cute.

  While I’m warming up, Katia stands and goes over to her things to retrieve a water bottle. She takes a swig and allows the spillage to run down her chin, neck, and front of her leotard. Katia’s got nice, natural breasts, and the moisture serves to accentuate them. Damn, she’s never done that before and I’d swear she’s doing it for my benefit. What the hell is going on here?

  “So,” she says, “a little bird tells me your birthday is tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yeah? What little bird is that?”

  “Your registration form you filled out for the class.”

  “Really? Does it fly?” I’m on the floor now, stretching my legs. She approaches and stands over me.

  “How about I bring you breakfast tomorrow?” she suggests.

  “What? Katia…”

  “No, really, Sam.” She squats to my level. “You never go out and I’ve had enough of our friendly get-togethers to ‘just have coffee.’ I want to bring you a birthday present and I’m volunteering to bring you bre
akfast. I know where you live; it’s on your registration form. How’s eight-thirty sound? Or would you rather sleep in for a while? I can make it nine-thirty or ten if you prefer.”

  I stop stretching and look at her. The woman is serious. “Katia, we’ve talked about this before. I’m really not in the singles market. I really appreciate the offer but I’d rather not—”

  “Bullshit, Fisher. Enough excuses. Now get up. It’s time to work.” She stands and moves away.

  I’m beginning to understand why no other students have shown up for class. I’ve been set up. “The others sure are late,” I say.

  “Forget the others, Fisher,” she says. “I wanted you all to myself today. I need you to spot me on some new moves. You game?”

  I stand and shrug. “Sure, Katia.”

  Before I have a chance to defend myself, she charges and delivers a powerful spinning heel kick, knocking me to the mat. I fall flat on my ass.

  “What’s the number one rule in Krav Maga, Fisher?” she asks.

  I sit up wearily. “Avoid getting hit.”

  She shakes her head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk…” Katia gestures with her hand for me to stand. I do so but now I’m on my guard. When she comes at me again I block the kick, grab her calf, and twist. She’s prepared for the maneuver, though. She rotates her body in the same direction as the twist and touches her hands to the floor to support herself. At the same time she sledgehammer kicks me in the abdomen with her free leg. This forces me to let go of her calf. I step back and look at my instructor with renewed respect.

  Katia’s on her feet. “Throw me, Fisher,” she says. “If you can.”

  “Katia, you know I can.”

  “Then shut up and do it.” Before I can move, she says, “If I pin you, I’m serving breakfast at your place tomorrow. Deal?”

  “Whoa, Katia. Wait a second.”

  “Deal?” This time she grins mischievously.

  All right, if that’s the way she wants it. “All right, Katia. Deal.”

  “Then throw me.”

  I move in to her live side, that is, the inside of an opponent using a basic stance with one foot forward. She has her left foot forward so I move ahead and to my left. Moving to this angle places me in a position where I can be struck by either her hands or feet. I want her to attack.