“Conn, Sonar. Regain of Master one on the spherical array.”
Kazan was popping above the thermocline to take a look with its spherical array. If North Carolina could see Kazan, then Kazan could see North Carolina.
The scenario was clear in Wilson’s mind. The two submarines were facing each other, and like an old-fashioned Western standoff, it was a race to shoot.
This time, however, North Carolina’s crew had the advantage; they had been tracking Kazan on the towed array and were likely much closer to a firing solution.
“Firing Point Procedures!” Wilson announced. “Master one, tube Two primary, tube Four backup.”
“Command Post, Hydroacoustic. Regain of Hydroacoustic two-one on the spherical array, bearing two-five-one.”
“Steersman, ahead two-thirds.”
Plecas ordered his submarine to slow to ten knots while he assessed the situation. The American submarine had gone above layer to evade their last torpedo. It would take a few minutes to figure out which way his adversary was headed, and at what speed and range.
A few minutes they might not have.
The American crew had likely been trailing their towed array below the layer as he’d done earlier, which meant they probably had a decent firing solution on Kazan.
There was no time to waste. If he could shoot first, he might be able to keep the Americans on the defensive. Sooner or later, one of Kazan’s torpedoes would home to detonation.
Plecas decided to fire down a line of bearing at the American submarine, rather than wait for a target solution. Additionally, he needed to address the thermocline; it was strong here in the Gulf of Mexico, providing a shadow zone that was proving to be a challenge if his torpedoes were cross-layer from their target.
There was a way to fix that.
“Immediate Firing, Hydroacoustic two-one, vertical salvo, tubes Four and Five.”
Plecas intended to place one torpedo above the layer and the other below. No matter which side of the layer the Americans evaded on, there would be a torpedo to deal with.
This time, the American submarine would not survive.
77
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
As Pat Kendall stood with her arm extended, her pistol aimed at Harrison’s head, he pieced together the clues.
Pat.
Patricia.
Trish.
Trish the Dish.
Kendall was the stripper — Mixell’s soul mate.
He had missed the clues, including her comment at the NCTC about ending up back on the street if she didn’t keep her nose clean. He had assumed she was local law enforcement prior to joining the CIA, patrolling city streets, but back on the street meant an entirely different thing in Kendall’s case.
Her background also explained the DDO’s comment the day they met at Langley, when Kendall entered Christine’s office and Harrison stood to greet her. No need for chivalry, the DDO had said, especially in Pat’s presence. It also explained Kendall’s odd interaction with Max, the Baltimore police officer, when Kendall had commented about his wife not being happy if she found out about his exploits when he was younger. Max must have frequented the strip clubs while she was a dancer, engaging in who-knew-what in the private rooms.
Kendall had indeed begun a new life, as the strip club manager mentioned, but hadn’t broken completely clear of the old one. She and Mixell were still together.
It amounted to a critical lack of insight on his part, a failure that might cost him his life. He realized that during the confrontation between Khalila and Kendall the day he’d met them at Langley, both women’s accusations were correct. Khalila had been responsible for some of her partners’ deaths, and Kendall was corrupt, as Khalila suspected.
The realization must have been evident on his face, because Kendall said, “You finally figured it out. I have to hand it to you, Jake. You’re pretty dense.
“Oh, one more thing. About that FBI backup. It’s not coming. There was no one on the other end of the call. It helps if you press the phone icon before talking.”
“Well, well, well,” Mixell said as he approached Harrison, kicking away his pistol on the floor. “Long time, no see. This is an unexpected bonus. I can’t tell you how much I’m going to enjoy killing you. After, of course, you realize how miserably you failed in your mission.”
Mixell waited for a response, but Harrison declined to respond. He wasn’t going to feed into whatever sadistic plan his former best friend had in mind.
An irritated look flashed across Mixell’s face.
“What’s the plan? you ask. Surely, you’re curious. Or perhaps you’ve figured it all out. Let me show you. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.”
He climbed into the CONEX box and Harrison heard an engine rumble to life, then a green mobile missile launcher, as Harrison had suspected, crept down the metal ramps to the warehouse floor, and Mixell parked it near the garage door opening.
Harrison didn’t know what model the launcher was, but from the look of things, it was a Russian short-to-medium-range air defense system. It was armed with twelve canister-mounted missiles most likely capable of distinguishing chaff and infrared decoys from the real thing, and the launcher system could probably guide multiple missiles simultaneously to separate targets or to the same one.
With Air Force One taking off from Joint Base Andrews across the river, the president’s aircraft was well within range, and unlikely to decoy multiple missiles closing the distance in only a few seconds.
“I must admit, I developed a brilliant plan,” Mixell said as he stepped from the launcher.
He waited for a response again, which Harrison refused to provide.
“What?” He placed his hand to his ear. “You want to hear all about it? Of course, you do. Inquiring minds want to know, and you always were the curious type.”
He turned toward Kendall and smiled.
“Trish was kind enough to provide me with the president’s schedule, and I picked a day for the launch when the president would be at the White House. If Kazan’s launch and incoming missile went undetected — I call that plan A — the president and a good portion of Washington, D.C., would be incinerated. Easy-peasy.”
He paused, then asked, “You have figured out the missiles Kazan is carrying are armed with nuclear warheads, haven’t you?” His eyes went to Kendall, then back to Harrison. “That would be yes. Trish has been keeping me up to date.
“However, there was always the possibility the president would be forewarned — perhaps if Kazan’s launch was detected or the incoming missile was spotted by air defense radars. In that case, I couldn’t let the president slip away. That would be plan B.” He pointed at the missile launcher.
“Personally, I’ve been hoping for plan B. I’ve got a camera ready to record it.” He gestured toward one of the computer displays on the table. “Air Force One on fire, trailing red flames as it plummets toward earth.”
Mixell went on to explain that the video would be played endlessly around the world, demonstrating Ayman al-Zawahiri’s reach and the capability of his rejuvenated al-Qaeda organization. Al-Qaeda would absorb many of the jihadist organizations, and funds would flow into its coffers. With the additional networks and loyal followers, plus adequate funds, there was almost nothing Zawahiri couldn’t accomplish.