McHugh shook his head.
“The theories include KGB-run agents executing Armageddon orders. You can’t trust the Russians, I still don’t believe that they unilaterally decided to cease and desist. It might be turncoats. Of course, these attacks could be the work of the infiltrators.”
Mike nodded. Many in CSAC doubted that the Soviet Union could have collapsed so quickly and without a last violent gasp. Even the idea of turncoats had merit. In an organization as large as CSAC, there were bound to be some bad apples. Every intelligence agency had their share.
McHugh’s allusion to the infiltrators was even more unsettling, but Mike understood that even that possibility could not be discounted. Some CSAC theorists have suggested that whoever was manning the Sentinels on the ocean bottom, the so-called fallen stars, could have infiltrated the general population. If this were true, then the ability to contain whatever was in the fallen stars would become problematic.
Despite the fact that the true meaning of the Sentinels was unknown, CSAC had many theories as to their origin. If the source was non-terrestrial, then the agency could not over look the possibility that the objects were merely the tip of the iceberg. If that were true, then CSAC plans to counteract other forms of intervention that the visitors might inflict on the United States would have to be implemented. The prospect was terrifying. Notwithstanding the broader implications of the objects, the supposed visitors had been labeled infiltrators. The idea was scary and not bandied about lightly and certainly not by McHugh.
Mike was surprised.
Although the concept of infiltrators had been the topic of many meetings and reports, McHugh had always listened quietly without comment.
McHugh sighed. “The scary thing is that we thought we had the last word in security. If not, then we have more problems than we ever thought we would.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’d like you to head up to Washington to coordinate the investigation.”
“What about the activity at the Watch Stations?”
“I had wanted you to go with me to Watch Station One, where activity was first noted. That will have to wait. I was hoping to go to Watch Station One today, but with everything happening, that may have to wait. Nevertheless, I need to get there sometime this week. You can catch up with me when you’ve sorted this thing out. This is too important. First, we need to make sure all the transmitted information is safely received, and second, make sure any leaks are cauterized immediately. Is that clear?”
Cauterizing leaks didn’t have to be explained. Mike knew what he had to do.
“Yes, sir. I’ll leave right away, Admiral.”
“Good, I’ve arranged for a plane to take you to Pautuxent. From there an armed escort will take you to CSAC — Washington. I can’t have any more of my agents shot up.”
“Me, neither.”
“Just be careful, Mike.”
The Navy Learjet C-21A touched down on the runway of the Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center in St. Mary’s County, Maryland, about 11:30 a.m. and taxied to the hangar area where three dark gray vehicles waited. The co-pilot of the small jet walked to the rear of the jet and opened the door/stairway. Mike, still in his summer tans, unbuckled his seat belt, grabbed his suitcase, and hurried over to the first vehicle. The final leg of this journey had to be made by ground transportation, as the CSAC facility in Washington did not have a heliport.
The three vehicles were all dark metallic gray, unmarked Suburbans with dark gray side and rear windows. Consequently, casual onlookers would not be able to see inside the vehicles. The dark gray color was likewise intentional. The Suburbans were unmarked and carried ordinary Maryland license plates, again to not attract undue attention.
Navy Warrant Officer David Lee snapped to attention and saluted. “Welcome to Maryland, Commander. If it’s okay with you we would prefer to have you in the second vehicle.” Lee was dressed in a dark blue uniform devoid of insignia or other markings. He could easily be mistaken for a civilian worker.
Mike was always amazed at how many weapons could be stashed in the nooks and crannies of the vehicle. Besides Colt AR-15 assault rifles and Striker 12 special purpose shotguns with special laser sights, the backs of the front seats had antipersonnel grenades, flash grenades designed to blind opponents, a grenade launcher and one handheld surface-to-air Stinger rocket launcher. Each Suburban had sufficient Kevlar helmets and vests for the occupants of the vehicle. A sliding roof panel facilitated the use of the Stinger.
Seated in the front seat of the Suburban was a major in the United States Army. At 32, Fred Bernstein was a lifer totally dedicated to special operations. A slight but muscular man, the former Delta Force member was known as one of the most dependable of the special ops men recruited to CSAC.
Bernstein spoke softly into the hand-held, scrambled communicator. “Dave, let’s head on out, but be careful. We’re code red on this assignment.”
Code red meant that the CSAC had reason to believe that an attack might be launched on its operatives at any time. With confirmation of Winslow’s demise and the unprovoked attacks on Mildred and Mike, McHugh had placed all CSAC facilities on code red.
From an operational standpoint, code red meant that any movement of CSAC personnel was to be clandestine. Travel on the open highway was prohibited and convoys had to travel on lesser known roads. This prohibition was necessary for two reasons: first, evasive travel gave potential adversaries fewer opportunities to stage ambushes; second, the command staff felt that travel on back roads minimized collateral damage, the chance that civilians might get in the way of flying bullets. One could only imagine the repercussions that would come if Washington Post headlines screamed, “Super Secret Intelligence Agency Gunfight Causes Massive Carnage on the Beltway.”
The convoy turned right at the exit gate for the Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center and headed north on State Highway 235. The plan was to take county roads as much as possible. As a security matter, the convoy leader would choose the final route from several options, once the convoy was underway. Traffic was sparse on the highway going north — a few station wagons, one or two sport cars, several panel trucks and an occasional pickup truck. The three vehicle convoy slipped easily into the stream of traffic.
Carefully following the convoy was a black panel truck with “GHC Corporation — Baltimore, Md.” stenciled in white letters on the front doors. The truck had been parked just outside of the entrance gate to the Pautuxent Center. About a half mile behind the panel truck and following several sedans later was a white delivery truck from Catonsville Furniture & Bedding.
The convoy traveled north on State Highway 235 for a few miles past towns with names such as Hollywood and Oakville. After driving through Mechanicsville, Bernstein consulted his map and plotted his course.
Following the directives for code red status, Bernstein knew that he would have to branch off the main road after Mechanicsville, where the population density started to exceed the safe limits proscribed in the directive. He remembered that one of the optional routes, Huntersville Road, north of New Market, Maryland, was a little used county road that rolled through mostly undeveloped wooded areas, pastures, and farmland.
“Why don’t we turn left on to Huntersville Road, Dave?” he said into the communicator.
“That’s about three miles ahead, do we see any bad guys?” said Lee, who was in the first Suburban.
“Don’t see anything out of the ordinary,” said Bernstein. “Joe, anything suspicious at your end?”
“Nothing,” said the Marine riding in the back of the third Suburban.