A gray sedan was stopped in front of the BOQ. A Marine in summer dress uniform stood at parade rest at the side of the car. As Mike approached the sedan, the young Marine corporal snapped to attention and saluted Mike.
Fumbling, Mike returned the salute.
“Good morning, Commander,” said the young Marine as he opened the rear door of the sedan. After Mike settled down, he was driven to the other side of the sprawling naval station to the CSAC Operations Center, located in a nondescript, white clapboard building.
Once inside the small, unpretentious foyer, Mike walked over to the counter, which was manned by two young Marines dressed in the sand-colored camouflage fatigues that had become popular since the Gulf War in 1991. Mike had no doubt that despite the relative youth of these guards; they were battle-hardened veterans.
CSAC drew its military personnel primarily from the special operations groups of each of the armed services. Marines came from their Special Operations Regiment, which was in many respects the United States’ answer to the British SAS. Mike knew that many of the Marines in the Special Operations Regiment had served inside Iraqi lines throughout the Persian Gulf conflict and some had paid the supreme price. None were ever identified. Navy Seals were another prime source of talent for CSAC, as were the Delta Force and the Air Force Special Forces, the ones that wore the distinctive red berets.
“Good morning, Commander,” said the Marine behind the counter.
Stowed within easy reach under the counter was a Striker 12 shotgun, with the choke on maximum fire pattern.
“Commander, may I see your credentials?”
Margaret had packed Mike’s CSAC credentials in his suitcase. Normally, CSAC agents carried no credentials whatsoever, until they had passed the stringent credibility tests at CSAC Operations Center. Those credentials had to be returned upon leaving the CSAC facility. Technology had advanced dramatically in terms of these identification cards. Encoded with a silicon chip, the modern cards permitted the holder to access only those areas for which he or she was authorized.
Mike handed the identification card to the young Marine, who placed it into a special card reader. The liquid crystal readout confirmed that the holder of the card was Mike Liu. The Marine dutifully returned the card to Mike. “Commander, we will still need the ReTek DNA Analyzer identification.”
“That’s new. What does this ReTek Analyzer do?”
“I’m not a scientist, sir, but I understand that it compares your saliva sample with file DNA records to verify that you are who you say you are. The information from the DNA Analyzer is then collaborated with your other identification parameters so that a proper statistical correlation can occur.”
The Marine handed Mike a small plastic cup from a sterile packet.
“Thanks, that’s very interesting.”
Mike spat into the cup. The Marine opened a sterile package, removed a small glass rod and inserted it into the plastic cup. The sample of Mike’s saliva that clung to the glass rod immediately turned a bright purple color. The Marine guard then placed the glass rod briefly into a small opening in the desktop ReTek DNA Analyzer where the purplish solution was quickly dried.
The glass rod was finally inserted into a second opening. Within seconds the small liquid crystal screen displayed the following: “Liu, Aloysius Xavier Kang Sheng, D.O.B. 12-20-43, Level One — XR2907.33.” The Marine triggered a buzzer that unlocked the door to the immediate right of the counter.
“Welcome to Newport News, Commander Liu.”
Mike turned to see the possessor of the pleasant, but familiar female voice. Ellen Jones, McHugh’s long-time civilian secretary, had been sent out to the foyer to get Mike and to bring him immediately to the Situation Room.
“Hi, Ellen, long time no see.”
“I heard that you’ve become a bigwig on Wall Street. Any hot tips?”
“No, I wish I had hot tips, but the side of the business I’m on only deals with new project development — I’m not your man.”
“Shucks, that means I’ll be stuck working for the old man until I retire,” said Ellen, smiling. “Anyhow, come on, they’re waiting for you.”
Turning a corner at the end of the long corridor, Ellen and Mike stopped at a stainless steel elevator door, which was guarded by two Special Operations airmen wearing their special red cravats and berets. Each airman held a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun. The least known of the special operations forces from which CSAC guards were drawn, the Special Operations Air Force personnel’s normal duties included guarding installations such as the stealth fighter bases in Tomah, New Mexico, and other lesser known places, such as the mysterious Area 51, where highly classified artifacts were stored.
“These guys seem so young,” Mike whispered.
“They may look young, but they are all Special Ops guys,” said Ellen.
Mike and Ellen held out their identification cards for the guards, one of whom ran each card through the reader on the door. The doors of the elevator opened and Mike and Ellen boarded. Silently, the stainless steel cage dropped Mike and Ellen more than 50 feet below ground. The CSAC installation was under sea level at this location.
The elevator slid to a gentle stop and the stainless steel doors slid open to reveal a subterranean world of artificial lighting. Sodium vapor lamps gave the narrow stainless steel corridors a yellowish hue. The corridors smelled of Lysol. If Mike hadn’t known better, he could have believed that he was inside a modern nuclear fleet submarine.
Mike and Ellen hurried down the narrow corridor, finally reaching a hatchway, which silently slid open on their approach. In the anteroom which was flooded in red light, two Navy Seals stood silently with their submachine guns at the ready.
As Mike and Ellen approached, one of the Seals said, “Hello, Ms. Jones, the old man is waiting for you.”
After the outer hatchway shut and a short period of time had passed for their eyes to adjust to the red light, the inner stainless steel hatchway slid open and Mike and Ellen went into the surprisingly small Situation Room of CSAC. Television monitors lined one wall of the remarkably small room.
On one wall was a large wall monitor, currently displaying a world map showing the locations of the four Watch Stations and the operational status of various CSAC facilities around the world. By punching in the right code, the operator of the wall monitor could bring up a variety of different geographical or informational inputs.
Using the flexibility of the various monitors available to him, McHugh could be in instant communication with the head of CSAC, all CSAC operations, the chief of staff of the armed services, the heads of the various intelligence agencies, the National Security Adviser, and the President at the touch of a button.
McHugh and several naval officers were clustered around a conference table at one end of the operations center. As the hatchway slid open, McHugh looked up.
“Mike, get over here.”
“What’s happened?” said Mike, knowing that in the security of the operations room, McHugh would finally brief him on the dramatic events that had been unfolding during the last forty-eight hours.
“Winslow’s dead. George Smith in the Washington office has a friend who’s the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Minneapolis-St. Paul field office. A guy named Herb Adams. Adams found out that Winslow had been killed, we don’t know by whom. With the attacks on you and Mildred and now confirmation on Winslow, we have to consider the possibility that someone has broken our cover. Anyway, Smith and that young kid, er, Twoomey, are taking a contingent of Marines up to Mankato, Minnesota, to retrieve the body. We’re hoping that the cylinder will be intact.”
“Any idea what’s going on?” said Mike.