Rogue Threat Page 26

  Chapter 41

  Chesapeake Bay, Virginia

  Native Virginia Beach resident Gary Austin knew that cobia was best caught near the rocks that supported the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. But there was a current this cool evening as the tide was flowing out to sea, and he didn’t want to run the risk of drifting into a concrete pylon while he focused on pulling in a twenty-pound cobia. Cobia tended to hang around structure, so Gary chose a floating buoy just outside the mouth of the bay to target.

  Gary’s father had been the chief pilot, running the pilot boats out of Lynnhaven Inlet, where small crews of navigational experts would come about the merchant ships dotting the mouth of the bay like an armada awaiting the signal to attack. The pilots would board the ships and steer them through the obstacle course that included the bridge-tunnels and the tight channels. The navigational challenges were too many to risk a marginally trained ship captain from, say, Thailand, to negotiate. One wrong turn and a bridge or tunnel would be destroyed, stopping road and sea traffic for weeks.

  “Red right returning,” Gary muttered aloud to himself, repeating the seafarer’s reminder of where to keep his boat in relation to the red light when returning to port. He stalled the engine and dropped anchor as a small sliver of the moon looked down at him with a haunting smile. In theory, he wasn’t supposed to be out tonight, as the recent attacks had caused the Hampton Roads Port Authority to issue a warning against all small craft from entering the bay. At 25 years old, Gary had two things in his favor. First, he was a certified merchant-ship pilot, and it was his night off. So if he ran into anyone, it would most likely be someone with whom he worked. Second, he thought the order to keep small craft out of the bay was stupid. With many friends in the military he knew that the more eyes and ears you had out and about, the more likely you were to deter bad things from happening.

  “Screw ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” he said.

  He opened the Igloo cooler and pulled a frozen mullet from the chest. Taking his filet knife, he cut the fish in half, leaving two six-inch pieces of fish. He took the one with the head and ran a large hook through the lips of the fish. He then shut off all of his lights, to keep from spooking the cobia, and pulled on a pair of night-vision goggles he had purchased at the Army-Navy surplus store. The goggles were first generation and relied on starlight, but they were a vast improvement over the naked eye.

  With the night-vision harness on his head, he picked up his rod and lobbed the baited hook over the side, watching the current pull the bait toward the buoy. He let the bait drift for about a minute, then reeled it in and repeated the process. It had good action fluttering in the current. He let the bait drift again, then locked the spool on his reel once it was directly aside the buoy. Putting the rod in a trolling rig, he set the line so that if a fish took the bait, it would set the hook.

  In the same cooler, he found a Budweiser, popped the top, and kicked back in his captain’s chair, looking toward the sky.

  Where had the years gone? he wondered. He recalled standing at his father’s knee as he would steer their boat through the wicked currents and how his dad was always able to find the best fishing spots. He had learned well, though, and today he was the younger, salty spitting image of his father. Blonde hair, tanned face, bitten fingernails, and the same Cape Hatteras drawl. He had already begun his career as a ship pilot, following in his father’s footsteps, though a penchant for good-looking women had landed his career in jeopardy a few weeks ago in Baltimore. While docked there, he had allowed the crew to enjoy a few “ladies,” which, after an accident a few years back, was strictly verboten.

  Snapped back to the present with the sound of another boat sputtering around the bay, he could hear the distinct hum of a gasoline engine somewhere in the offing.

  He heard the equally distinctive snap of the fishing line against the trolling rig. Gary snatched the rod out of its holder and heaved it skyward. He had a cobia.

  “Yeah, baby, give it to me,” he said, talking the fish toward the boat. He could see through his goggles that it was not just a cobia. It was a large cobia. Maybe forty or fifty pounds. Cobia were actually members of the shark family, making them terrific fighters. Moreover, their ability to produce thick fish steaks good for grilling made it worth the effort.

  As he worked the fish toward the edge of the boat, the engine he had heard became louder—so loud that he had to stop what he was doing, holding the rod high in the air to keep the hook set while he looked skyward.

  Gary found it hard to believe, but there was a small, single-engine airplane flying about twenty meters off the water, and it had just turned less than a quarter mile from his anchor position.

  Through his night-vision goggles, he suddenly saw bright lights shoot upward from a ship about a mile away.

  The cobia kept pulling at his rod but was wearing down. Gary kept his eyes on the airplane as it flew directly at the ship. He’s going to hit the ship, he thought. Grabbing his cell phone, he prepared to call 911.

  Then the strangest thing happened. The airplane lifted a bit in the air and dove straight for the deck of the ship, almost like—well, exactly like Navy pilots do on aircraft carriers. He had watched about a million Tomcats take off and land on carriers and at Oceana Naval Air Station. What he was watching seemed, in theory, no different. He watched as the plane blended with the ship, thought he heard a slight noise of rubber screeching on metal, and then quickly reeled in his fish.

  He unhooked the cobia, stumbling with it a moment, and stuffed it in the live well, still flapping, and then drew in his anchor.

  Gary cranked the engine and sped toward the ship, slowing and slipping into idle as he neared. He kept his night-vision goggles on and the running lights off.

  He drifted close to the ship, close enough to see the name under the moonlight: Fong Hou.

  He recognized the name from the long list of merchant ships on their “to do” list. China, he recalled. About fifteen down the list of ships that were going to enter the Bay, up to Baltimore, he thought.

  He pulled away from the ship to get a better angle, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. As he throttled the engine he looked over his shoulder and began to wonder if he hadn’t just lost sight of the plane as it continued to fly up the Bay. Or had he really seen a small aircraft land on the deck of the Fong Hou?

  During the hour-long trip back to the Chesapeake Bay Pilots Quarters just inside Lynnhaven Inlet, his confidence faded in what he had seen. It was dark and his goggles weren’t the best. There were maybe twenty-five ships anchored in between the mouth of the Bay and the Ocean. And he had a giant cobia in his live well. Maybe the screech of the wheels had been the pull of his drag on his reel.

  He tied his own boat up to the pier and bounded up the steps to the Pilot Quarters. Opening the door he saw Rich Burns and Blake Sessoms. Burns was the second in command and on duty tonight. Sessoms was a volunteer who liked to hang around the 45-foot twin-diesel boats. Gary thought Burns was a decent boss, but a bit strict. Sessoms, on the other hand, had surfed Hatteras with him a few times, was rich, had his own rig, and was trying out as an apprentice pilot, Gary thought, just to have something cool to do.

  “What are you doing here, junior?” Burns asked, putting down a deck of cards. They sat at an old picnic table that had been in the Quarters since Gary’s dad was the chief pilot.

  “Gary,” Sessoms said, acknowledging his friend.

  Austin grabbed a seat and looked at Burns then Sessoms.

  “You guys may think I’m crazy—”

  “No doubt,” Burns said, holding the deck in his hand.

  “That’s been established,” Sessoms added, looking at the two cards Burns had dealt.

  “Listen you dickweeds. I was just out doing some Cobia fishing—”

  “Catch anything?” Burns asked.

  “He ain’t got nothing,” Sessoms said. “Every time he catches a minnow, he brings it up here like it’s a citation.”

  “G
uys, quit giving me shit, here, okay?”

  “Then what did you come in here for on your day off?” Sessoms quipped. Then, to Burns, “Hit me.”

  Burns flicked a card at Sessoms and then looked at his own.

  “I think an airplane just landed on the Fong Hou.”

  “Fong Hou?” Sessoms asked. “Is that like, ‘One Hung Low’?”

  “Bite me, Sessoms,” Austin said.

  “Fong Hou’s number seventeen on the list,” Burns said, looking at his cards. “We’ve got four operational boats. Takes a day per ship. We’ll get to it in five days, junior, if we get the word to move ‘em.”

  “What’d the plane look like?” Sessoms asked.

  “It was small,” Austin said. “Wings above the fuselage and some kind of crazy v-shaped things between the wings and the rest of the airplane. Like bat wings.”

  “Like a flying saucer?” Burns joked.

  “You can bite me, too, Burns.”

  “Listen, Austin. After the hookers in Baltimore and the alcohol on your breath, I think you ought to be a bit more,” Burns paused, obviously looking for a big word, “circumspect.”

  “I’m telling you, man.” Austin shook his head in dismay.

  “Alright, dudes. I’m out of here,” Sessoms said, throwing his cards on the table. He stood, his long sandy hair flowing down to his shoulders. “Going up to the mountains early in the morning to catch up with, Matt.”

  “Garrett?” Burns asked.

  “Yeah. His sister sent me the S.O.S.”

  “It’s been a while. Say, ‘hey,’ for me, will you, Hope he’s okay,” Burns said. By now, they were both ignoring Austin, who had walked to the digital docket that displayed the long list of ships awaiting pilot assistance.

  “Sure. Hey Austin,” Sessoms said. “Wanna show me that cobia?”

  “Might as well,” Austin sighed.

  “Later, Burns.” Burns and Sessoms did a knuckle punch and then Sessoms walked out with Austin.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Austin asked.

  As they approached Austin’s twenty-five-foot Dixie, Sessoms said, “Why wouldn’t I? How big?”

  “I’m talking about the airplane,” Austin said.

  Sessoms stopped and put his hand on Austin’s shoulder. He was over six feet tall and towered above the younger man.

  “Look, Gary—”

  “This ain’t got anything to do with bringing a couple of chicks on the pilot boat, man.” Gary looked down at the ground.

  “Probation is probation, man. I wouldn’t push it with Burns.”

  “But what if it’s something?” Austin asked.

  Sessoms looked at the glassy water of the Inlet then back at Austin.

  “Okay, let me think about it tonight and then we’ll chat tomorrow. I’ll call you. Deal?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Least I can do is give you some top cover with Burns.”

  “He’s just pissed ‘cause he ain’t getting any.”

  “He’s still your boss. And no matter who your old man was, you’ve still got to be careful.”

  By now Austin had opened the top of the live well. Blake stayed on the pier as Austin lifted the enormous cobia.

  “Steaks tomorrow night?” Sessoms asked.

  “Deal. Thanks, bud.”

  “Good land there, Austin. I’ll catch you tomorrow,” Sessoms called over his shoulder as he walked one pier over to his Boston Whaler.

  He cranked the engine, backed away from the pier, and throttled his way quickly to his home on nearby Broad Bay.

  As he navigated the channel, he remembered three things: Fong Hou, small airplane, and bat wings above the fuselage.

  Chapter 42

  The Vice President’s Middleburg Mansion

  Meredith pulled her car into the familiar driveway. She parked next to the other cars in front of the guest cabins that the vice president had converted into the alternate command and control center.

  She could see the lights on in the center cabin, which was the primary communications center. Behind the “command post,” as Hellerman called it, were the other two cabins. All three were constructed in a stone cottage style that made them look like they had jumped off a Thomas Kinkade painting. The other two cottages primarily housed staff and Secret Service personnel, who stayed on site twenty-four hours a day.

  The size of nice suburban homes, the cottages each had bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and all the usual amenities of a house. The big upgrade had been in communications equipment. A communications team had spent months installing satellites, laying fiber optic cables, and essentially digitizing every phone, radio, television, computer, and camera. The entire compound was wired with Top Secret phone lines and Internet connections.

  Meredith looked across the field about a quarter mile to the mansion, which was strictly off limits to everyone except herself and some select Secret Service. The mansion was a medieval-looking stone building, like the cottages, but five times the size. Meredith thought that it seemed like a dark and brooding father watching over his three children. Tonight the mansion was dark but for a room on the second floor.

  She entered the command post and could hear the steady rhythm of an operations center. Fax machines were chugging away, CNN and Fox News were playing on two separate televisions, phones were ringing, and there was a computer running at every desk. She saw Jock Evans, Zeke Jeremiah, and Stan Rockfish from the Rebuild America discussion group and waved.

  “Hey guys,” she said, walking over to the flat panel display monitor that summarized significant activities. “What do we have tonight?”

  “A shit storm, like usual. All trading was suspended on the stock market today, and the world markets are diving everywhere. No doubt we’re going to be heading for a major worldwide recession, if not depression,” Evans said, shaking his head.

  Jeremiah continued. “The president is shutting down all of the shopping malls, and everywhere in the country people are to avoid places of public assemblage. And he finally decided to shut down the airlines. It’s about time. This Ballantine guy is going after everything.”

  “So much for our twenty-four-hour respite,” she said.

  “We’ve mobilized the Reserves and the National Guard, but there’s really no plan for dealing with something like this. We’ll be making it up as we go.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Meredith said.

  “Right, but we’ve got Special Forces Command as well as all of Fort Bragg going over contingency plans right now. There are some leads, but they’re rather thin. Problem is that we’ve committed the bulk of our forces abroad. Not much left to deal with stuff at home.”

  “Not much of the elite ones anyway,” she said, remembering Zachary.

  “We’ve also picked up a low-flying airplane moving up the St. Lawrence River. Could be Ballantine. Actually the Canadians found it first. We’re sending some jets up there now to check it out.”

  “Good. Good,” Meredith said.

  “Here’s your briefing packet. The vice president wants his update in the mansion tonight for some reason.”

  “That’s unusual, but he’s the boss,” she said, shrugging. She knew exactly what he wanted.

  She grabbed the packet and rifled through its contents. On one PowerPoint slide was a map of the country with little red starbursts indicating the locations of attacks. Having it graphically displayed made an impact on her, allowing her to see the genius of the attacker. North Carolina, Minnesota, Georgia, Arkansas, Colorado, Washington State. It was diverse and unpredictable. It was terrifying.

  “Okay, let me go do the deed,” she said, shaking her head. While they understood her to mean one thing, her comment actually meant more than what they gathered.

  She walked across the parking lot, carrying the manila folder, following a stone sidewalk that led from the cabins to the mansion. Black, wrought-iron gas lamps lit her way as she ascended the steps to the mansion. The spring evening was mild with just a hint of
chill in the air.

  She rang the doorbell and waited, then rang again. She looked through the window to the side of the door and could see no lights on in the front of the house.

  She had been here before and knew he wouldn’t want her waiting on the porch. So she let herself into the home and quickly punched the security code on the pad in the coat closet. She paused, took off her coat, and then hung it in the closet next to some others, including a few of his wife’s coats. A bolt of guilt shot through her but quickly ran its course.

  Meredith had rationalized this a long time ago and had convinced herself that it was the right thing to do. She was wearing a turquoise business suit with a diamond butterfly broach and matching earrings. Her hair was up in a bun, because he liked it that way. The small Rolex watch that he had given her slid gently on her wrist as she walked into the large foyer and then into the den. She flipped a light switch and then threw the manila folder onto the coffee table.

  She noticed that she was more nervous this time than she had been the others. Her mind quickly flashed back to a year ago when the secretary of defense had invited her to his house. She had refused. With Hellerman, though, it was different. She was a willing participant in the affair. As they got to know each other, she became completely infatuated with his vision and plans for reuniting America. Meredith was a patriot, and she was devoted to both the vice president and his special cause to bring the country back together.

  But now, after today, she wanted to call it all off. She was going to tell Hellerman she still loved Matt.

  She moved around the room like a cat, regaining familiarity with her surroundings. She stopped in front of the large fireplace, the slate rock chimney climbing all the way to the vaulted ceiling. A Civil War-era musket hung above the hearth with a powder horn on one side and a bugle on the other. The entire room was tastefully done, reflective of Hellerman’s personality and past professions. There were the appropriate law books in the study, international relations books in the bookcase in the living room, and assorted paintings depicting faraway lands scattered throughout the home.