The terrorism expert had checked into that matter as well.
“The Maryland Air National Guard reported that the Warthog was missing, but Pautuxent didn’t get the report until the Marine pilots had actually intercepted the attacking craft. It was confusing. The early morning shift just thought that a flight request and flight plan had been misplaced. Didn’t institute a search until it was too late.”
“The Coast Guard is now searching for clues at the crash site,” Smith added.
Mildred frowned. “Doesn’t anyone think it’s pretty weird, all these attacks by no one in particular?”
Smith shrugged, “There have been a bunch of strange things happening. Remember that attack in Langley where someone went car to car blowing away CIA agents stopped at a light? There hasn’t been any rational explanation for that attack yet.”
“How would these people know what our travel plans would be?” Mike said. “Has anyone got any ideas? By the way, Herb, I’d like to go with you.”
Smith shook his head. “Travel arrangements were all made separately by the CSAC office initiating the trip, so we can discount a connection there. Mike, the old man doesn’t want you to travel, just in case you’re a target. The same applies to you, Mildred.”
“Did Winslow’s body have the cylinder?” said Mike, ignoring Smith’s comment.
“Yes,” said Twoomey. “But the heat of the fire may have destroyed any hope of recovering the message. Nonetheless, the cylinder has been sent to Laurel for decoding.”
“What about the other messengers?” said Mike.
“Three cylinders have now been retrieved: Mildred’s, Winslow’s, and the one from Station One,” said Smith.
“What about Station Three?” said Mike.
“We should hear today.”
“What is all this about?” said Adams.
Smith looked up. “Now that the old man has authorized your participation, I’ll be able to fully brief you after the meeting. For now, all you need to know is that we have some extremely sensitive underwater watch posts in four locations around the continental United States. Each of those posts is presumed to have transmitted a message to CSAC within the last forty-eight hours. We received one, Mildred’s. A second one was brought by a courier from Watch Station One. He bummed a ride on a military plane.
“The third message is hopefully in the cylinder extracted from Winslow’s body. The last message, which was to come from Watch Station Three, about 100 miles off Santa Catalina Island, on the coast of California, has apparently not been generated. We’re in the process of trying to communicate with them now.”
“Why are they called ‘Watch Stations’? What are they watching?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Mike leaned toward Mildred conspiratorially. “McHugh can’t hold us, Mildred. Let’s make a break for it.”
Mildred smiled.
Addressing the others in the conference room, Mike added, “Seriously, let’s get the old man on the phone, George. It doesn’t make sense for Mildred and me to be on ice during something this serious.”
“Wait a minute. I retired years ago,” said Mildred.
“Come on, Mildred. Do you really want to sit this one out?” said Mike.
“Well — no. Count me in.”
“Let’s make the call,” said Mike as he turned to Smith.
Smith, reached for the green, push-button telephone.
A harried McHugh picked up the telephone, “Yes?”
“Admiral, this is George Smith. I’ve got two agents chafing at the bit. If you don’t let them fly, they’re going to leave on their own. Kind of out of my league, thought you might want to know. Could be one hell of a firefight if you insist I keep them under wraps.”
McHugh chuckled softly. “Put Mike on the phone.”
“The old man wants to speak to you, Mike.”
Mike took the telephone. “Hello, Admiral.”
“Mike, what do you want to do? Wasn’t target practice two times in two days enough for you? By the way, tell Smith if I ever hear him refer to me again as the ‘old man’, he’s going back to gum shoeing. If you and Mildred really want to stick your necks out, just be careful.”
Mike put the receiver back on its cradle and turned to Smith. “The old man says don’t call him the ‘old man’ anymore. Do you have any civvies?”
The meeting concluded, the participants went their separate ways. Mildred went straight to the weapons manager to get her gear. She hoped that CSAC had kept her favorite pistol in working order. It was a small, lady-like one.
Smith disappeared to round up some civilian clothes for Mike to wear. Mike picked up a regular telephone and dialed his computerized voice mailbox system.
“This is your VoiceCall message center, if you have a mailbox on the system please dial your number now,” intoned the metallically androgynous voice that answered the telephone. Mike dialed the number of his mailbox. The robotic voice announced that he had one message.
The message was from Mike’s secretary. “Mr. Liu, you had many calls, but I was able to get some of your staff to address them. Mr. Wickerspoon would like you to call him when you have a moment. Also, a Richard MacLaren called; he asked that you call him as soon as possible. His number is 505-978-3344.” Mike punched the asterisk on the handset and the VoiceCall message computer switched off.
Mike called Seth Wickerspoon.
“Mr. Wickerspoon’s office,” answered a pleasant female voice.
“Hello, Elizabeth. Is Seth in?”
“Hold on, Mr. Liu. He’ll be right with you.”
“Mike, sorry you can’t attend lunch. What’s up?” said Seth.
“I’m doing something for Bob McHugh.”
“Oh. When will you finish?”
“Don’t know.”
“O.K., but keep in mind I still have a business to run.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mike then dialed McLaren’s number.
“MacLaren residence,” answered a young female voice.
“Is Richard MacLaren in?”
“One moment, sir.”
“Dick MacLaren,” said a deep voice.
“Mike Liu here.”
“Hello, Mike, I’m afraid I’ve some bad news. My father-in-law is dead.”
“How, when? Gosh, I’m really sorry.” Mike was shaken. What a week for the telephone. As if the call from the young Navy Lieutenant wasn’t enough, now Mike would have to deal with the death of his old friend. The coincidence of the two events was mystifying and strangely frightening.
“Johnny joined the Great Spirit in his sleep, Thursday night. The formal ceremony is set for weekend after next, can you make it?”
“Why so late?”
“It was his wish; we found it written on a sheet of paper. Apparently the sun is at a certain point on the horizon on that day. Johnny was pretty insistent.
Despite his grief, Mike was mystified why Johnny Thapaha had specified a date certain. “Did he say anything? Any messages?”
“There was something, but I have to see you.”
“Was anyone with Johnny?”
“No, but my littlest, Jimmy, was with him that morning for his last visit to the mesa.”
“Dick, I’ll be there.”
Mike replaced the handset on its cradle. His thoughts rushed back to those long-buried memories.
1970: The Navajo
“Mike, can I see you for a moment?” said McHugh over the secure telephone.
“I’ll be right there, Sir.”
Mike walked down the narrow corridor in the National Security Agency building in Laurel, Maryland, to McHugh’s interior office.
Unlike his office in Port Hueneme, California, with the trophies of his successes and achievements, McHugh’s office at NSA was strictly utilitarian. The standard office furniture was gray metal desk, chair and metal bookcase. In one corner sat a metal, three-drawer file cabinet with a metal angle iron holding the drawers closed. The metal angle iron was locked with combination locks on the top and the bottom.