As Kendall’s car pulled from the parking garage onto Lewinsville Road, a dark blue Hyundai Tucson followed, trailing far enough behind to escape notice. In the driver’s seat, Khalila Dufour slipped sunglasses on as her SUV turned toward the setting sun.
67
K-561 KAZAN
Aleksandr Plecas leaned over the fire controlman’s shoulder, studying the geographic display on his console. Kazan was proceeding at three knots on its electric drive, the minimum speed possible for bare steerageway, at a depth of one hundred meters, just below the thermocline. Stealth was paramount, and Kazan was rigged for ultra-quiet. Only the essential personnel were on watch, with all others confined to their beds, minimizing the possibility of a watertight door being closed too forcefully, someone dropping a tool on the deck, or even a toilet seat slamming down too hard, with the sound transmitted through the submarine’s steel hull into the ocean.
Plecas had no choice but to take the risk of being detected again — he had to extract Kazan from the sonobuoy field; they couldn’t sit there forever. He had a schedule to meet, and they had burned through most of the reserve time he had incorporated into their transit.
Thus far, the extraction appeared to have worked. Kazan had slowly slipped past the sonobuoys and the twelve-buoy field was drawing farther behind them with no indication the maritime patrol aircraft above them had reacted.
Plecas maintained Kazan at three knots until they were ten thousand meters away from the sonobuoy field, then increased speed to ten knots. He stopped beside the navigation table and queried Michman Korzhev, the Navigation Party Technician.
“What is the required speed to reach the launch point on time?”
Korzhev measured the distance and replied, “Eighteen knots, Captain.”
Plecas turned to his Watch Officer. “Shift propulsion to the main engines and proceed at ahead full, shaft turns for eighteen knots.”
After the Watch Officer acknowledged and issued the orders, Plecas turned back to Korzhev.
“Time to launch point?”
“One hour and ten minutes, sir.”
68
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Dusk was falling, shadows creeping across the city as Kendall pulled into a parking spot in front of the Perry Realty Company on Duke Street, not far from city hall. Ashley Gonzalez met Harrison and Kendall at the front door and ushered them into a small, but well-appointed reception area containing several plush chairs and a single desk. After introducing herself, she slid into the desk chair as the two CIA officers moved behind her.
She had already pulled up the recent sales and rental agreements Sandy Perry had arranged over the last month, and had them sorted by type of property. She scrolled down to the warehouse section, where three buildings were listed. All were in Alexandria, and one was purchased while two were rented.
“Do you know who the buyer or renter is for each one?” Harrison asked.
“Certainly,” Ashley replied. She clicked on each entry, which expanded them to show the details.
One was purchased by a woman, which temporarily ruled that one out, while the other two buildings were rented by men, neither of whose names Harrison recognized: Jim Patton and David Morrell.
“Do you know when she signed those two rental agreements?”
Mixell hadn’t been in the country for long, and assuming he evaluated the property in person before signing the rental agreement, there was a narrow window to work with.
“Let me check the paperwork,” Ashley replied.
She navigated through the computer’s file directory, opening the rental agreements for the two properties in question. The first had been signed two weeks ago, well before Mixell had returned to America. The second date, however, fit perfectly. It was signed the same day Mixell had flown into Dulles.
“That’s it,” Kendall said, who pulled up the map app on her phone and typed in the address. “Just a few blocks away.”
69
K-561 KAZAN
“Entering launch basket.”
Captain Lieutenant Mikhail Alekhin, Kazan’s Weapons Officer, made the report.
“Verify each target is within range,” Plecas ordered.
Plecas waited as Alekhin ran the target package through fire control, checking the distance to each target. Once the fire control system completed its calculations, Alekhin announced, “All twenty targets are within range.”
To his Watch Officer, Plecas ordered, “Slow to ten knots.”
Captain Lieutenant Ludvig Yelchin, this section’s Watch Officer, relayed the order to the Steersman, and after Kazan coasted down to the ordered speed, Plecas picked up the tactical communication microphone.
“Hydroacoustic, Captain. Perform detailed acoustic search, all sectors. Report all contacts.”
A few minutes later, after analyzing the broadband and narrowband sensor data, Hydroacoustic reported, “Captain, Hydroacoustic. Hold no contacts.”
That was good news, but the Kalibr missiles would leave behind a white smoke trail, pinpointing Kazan’s position for any nearby warships or military aircraft.
Caution was prudent. Plecas had been surprised by the maritime patrol aircraft they had encountered a few hours earlier. The Americans had apparently established an ASW barrier across the Gulf of Mexico, in addition to the one he expected to be arrayed along the United States’ East Coast. Whoever was in charge of the American ASW forces was astute indeed, recognizing that launching from the Gulf of Mexico would produce even more devastating results.
It was clear that the Americans had placed P-8A assets in the Gulf, but what else? As for submarines, he doubted there were any in the Gulf. All of the Atlantic Fleet submarine home ports were on the East Coast, with the nearest fast attack port being in Norfolk, Virginia. It seemed unreasonable to route a submarine to the Gulf when it was far easier to position maritime patrol aircraft there.
The only remaining task was to verify there were no warships on the horizon or military aircraft circling above, waiting to attack.
Plecas turned to his Watch Officer.
“Man Combat Stations and proceed to periscope depth.”
70
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
The warehouse was at the end of Oronoco Street, built on the bank of the Potomac River and nestled between Oronoco Bay and Founders Park. Kendall eased off the gas as they approached the last intersection before the river. The warehouse was on the far left corner and mostly shrouded in darkness, with only a few sporadic streetlights illuminating the area.
Kendall turned right and went a block before doing a U-turn, then parked in the darkness alongside Founders Park. She pulled her pistol from its holster as she stepped from the car, holding it down by her side away from the street, so any passing cars or pedestrians wouldn’t notice. Harrison did the same, accompanying her to the corner of North Union and Oronoco, where they stopped in the shadows to survey the warehouse.
There were no windows or doors on the short side of the building, and a single door and several multipaned windows spanned the long side. Harrison checked the warehouse for evidence of a security system — cameras or motion detectors — but didn’t spot any telltale signs.