“Don’t know, Commander. Certainly wasn’t in the operational plan for this trip.” Margaret’s face remained completely devoid of emotion. This was just business as usual for this veteran of CSAC.
She held a small Uzi automatic pistol with the safety off, just in case other attackers were about. The Uzi had been secreted in a panel in the rear door.
Mike sat back in the leather seat, chastised not by Margaret’s remarks but by his asking in the first place. How unsophisticated; how unprofessional. Of course, Margaret was right; it wasn’t his job to worry about why they were under attack no matter how unexpected or strange. Asking such questions might be expected of a rookie. Mike was not a rookie and he should not have asked. His only assignment was to get to Newport News.
Being a civilian for so long had made him weak. Notwithstanding that fact, he couldn’t get the notion out of his head that the attack was irrational. Mike had no room for irrational behavior, especially where CSAC was involved. He sat silently and looked out the side window.
Entering the facility, the two cars stopped at the small heliport where a Navy UH-1N Huey helicopter waited. The NAVFAC facility was on a high state of alert occasioned by the unexpected attack on Mike’s caravan.
The rotors of the helicopter were already turning. Mike and Margaret quickly exited the sedan and climbed into the back bench covered in khaki canvas. The Marine guards took the two vehicles over to base security to investigate the attack. Sliding on to the seats behind the pilot and co-pilot, Mike and Margaret buckled themselves into the harness restraints and put on the earphones that were hanging on the bulkhead.
The pilot, a young Navy Lieutenant, spoke over the intercom. “Commander, we should be in Newport News within two hours.”
Mike nodded. “Can you scramble our ETA to the Shipyard and advise them that we came under attack?”
“Roger.”
I wonder what that was all about, thought Mike still unable to shake the attack from his mind, as the thumping of turning rotors accelerated into a high-pitched whine. As the helicopter lifted off and reached its cruising altitude, it was joined by three Sikorsky HH-53H helicopters that had been circling over the heliport. The Sikorsky helicopters, fondly called the Jolly Green Giants or Giants for short, flew in formation with Mike’s helicopter. One lagged behind and above the other three aircraft.
As the green and gray of New Jersey flashed below him, Mike settled back for the ride comforted by the fact that the Giants would assure his safe arrival. Even as he mulled over the strange attack, which had been a nuisance at best, Mike began to reflect on what he needed to do when he reached Newport News. His thoughts raced through all the options, all the contingency planning, the endless scenarios and gaming that CSAC had gone through in anticipation of this day’s arrival.
The apparent lack of activity at Watch Station Three was puzzling. Whatever form it took, this was the only activity in over twenty years of watching. Logic dictated that all four sites should have behaved in a similar fashion. Mike wondered which system detected the activity first, hoping that the form of measurement, in and of itself, could shed some light on the mystery.
Over the intercom, Mike could hear the pilot and co-pilot communicating with each other and with the pilots of the Giants. The attack on the access road to NAVFAC was enough to put the pilots on heightened alert. However, the flight was uneventful and everyone relaxed.
After awhile, a scratchy voice blared out over the intercom, “Commander, there are some sandwiches and pop in the cooler on the deck in front of you. Help yourself to lunch.”
From the pilot’s speech, Mike guessed that he was from the Midwest — the use of “pop” for soft drinks had been a dead giveaway.
Reaching down to the red and white plastic cooler sitting in front of his feet, Mike rotated the cover open. Inside the cooler were a half dozen rigid, triangular-shaped clear plastic containers each holding a cold sandwich. The cover of each container contained a printed label describing its contents. Mike hated reading the labels on packaged food. Every time he did he marveled at the amount of preservatives and other chemicals thrown into those little packages. He had once read about an archaeological excavation at a forty-year-old landfill, which uncovered forty-year old hot-dogs that still seemed fresh and edible. Mike had never again eaten hot-dogs.
Whatever the hell is calcium stearate, anyway, thought Mike.
Also in the cooler were a dozen soft drinks in aluminum pop-top cans. The selection went from root beer to diet colas.
“Chief, what would you like?”
“A ham sandwich would be great, and a diet Sprite.”
Handing the sandwich and the diet drink to Margaret, Mike wondered how she had stayed so slim throughout the years they had worked together. Probably from drinking diet soda. After making sure that everyone was taken care of, Mike picked an egg salad sandwich and, following Margaret’s example, a diet Pepsi to wash it down. Biting into the slightly stale and icy cold sandwich, Mike couldn’t help contemplating the irony of it all.
At this very moment he could have been sitting down on a comfortable Chippendale chair, at a dark mahogany dining table, in the richly appointed partners’ dining room on the fifty-second floor of the Franklin Smedley & Associates’ offices. Instead of a skinny white bread sandwich with icy cold, wilted lettuce and a strange plastic taste, Mike could have been dining on pâté of duck appetizer, medium rare medallions of veal in truffle sauce, and a glass of chilled Chardonnay from Chateau Ste. Michelle, a favorite of Mike’s from the eastern half of Washington State.
Oh, well, thought Mike, as the image of a civilized lunch dissolved to gray, food is food. He bit down on the plastic-tasting sandwich.
1993: Missing In Action
“Have you checked all the later flights from Minneapolis?” said Smith to the young, dark haired woman standing before him. “Maybe the Seattle flight was delayed and he caught a later Washington flight.”
A recent recruit to CSAC, Joyce Ellington had graduated from the University of Denver with a degree in English literature. Spy novels had always been her favorite spare time reading. Knowing that she was in an agency whose existence was unknown to the world was a real high, the answer to her youthful dreams.
With long black hair, light green eyes, a slim figure, and five foot height, she could still pass for a high school student or younger. Having graduated Phi Beta Kappa, she was generally regarded as an up and coming analyst. She wore cotton dresses in soft pastel colors, which further enhanced her overall youthful appearance.
“George, we haven’t heard from Richard Winslow since he left SeaTac yesterday morning. He was encoded at the Naval Air Station in Bellingham, Washington, and was placed on Northwest Flight 8 to Minneapolis/St. Paul, which we know arrived on time at 4:48 p.m. Central Daylight Savings Time. His flight to Washington was scheduled for departure at 6:05 p.m. Even if Winslow had to go from the Gold Concourse to the Green Concourse, he should have had ample time to make the grand tour.”
“The grand tour?”
“The Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport is laid out in a rough ‘H’ with the main terminal at the center of the ‘H.’ Two of the legs of the ‘H’ wrap around slightly and extend for some distance in a parallel fashion, bracketing the parking garage which is located in the center of the airport. The distance between these two concourses, the Green and the Gold, can make life hell for a passenger, if he has to go from the end of the Gold to the end of the Green — the grand tour.”
“Wish I hadn’t asked,” said Smith with a thin smile. “What about Winslow?”