Mixell drove on for a while, pulling his Mustang to the side of the road near a break in the trees where there was a clear view of Hoskins’s destination: Secretary of the Navy Brenda Verbeck’s estate. The Prius stopped beneath a portico, where Hoskins, carrying a briefcase, was met at the door by a servant, and the front door closed after he stepped inside the mansion.
A light flicked on in an upstairs room, which Hoskins entered while Brenda Verbeck waited by the doorway. He placed his briefcase on a conference table, then stopped beside Verbeck, placing his hands on her waist as he gently kissed her neck. They disappeared from view, and a moment later, a faint light lit the master bedroom at the back corner of the house.
A twisted scenario indeed, Mixell thought.
Verbeck was having an affair with the man she had contracted to kill. But perhaps he had gotten it wrong and someone else had targeted the Pentagon Navy chief and captain. After considering the possible scenarios, Mixell’s conviction returned; his assessment was likely correct. What he’d gotten wrong was underestimating how conniving and ruthless Verbeck was. A woman truly to be admired.
With his eyes on the bedroom widows, Mixell reviewed the relevant details he had gleaned thus far. Hoskins had been divorced for about a year, with custody of his daughter on weekends. Verbeck, on the other hand, was a married woman, whose husband worked and lived in San Diego. Whether Brenda and her husband were estranged or she was simply taking advantage of their separation, Mixell didn’t know.
It looked like there was no more to learn tonight about Hoskins’s travels, so Mixell started his car and headed down the road.
Shortly after Mixell returned to his hotel room, his phone vibrated, followed by a notification sliding onto the screen.
An encrypted message.
He launched the application and typed in his password followed by his thumbprint, and a message appeared on screen.
You were spotted at National Harbor and identified. You shouldn’t have been so sloppy.
Mixell typed, “I wasn’t sloppy. I prefer they know who was behind the attempted assassination.”
But I also know who you are now, instead of a faceless For Hire on the dark web.
“Is that supposed to be some sort of threat?”
No. It means there’s the potential for future work.
“What kind of work?”
Finish your current assignment, then we’ll talk. How long until the other two men are eliminated?
“No definitive timeline yet. I’m working on the plan for the Pentagon captain. The fifth man on the list is on the other side of the country, so I’ll deal with him last.”
The fifth man has been rehired by the CIA. He’s in your neck of the woods now.
Mixell considered the new information, then grinned. Harrison had been rehired to track him down. A new message appeared on his phone.
Don’t let authorities discover you’re behind the other four deaths. My client doesn’t want these killings connected.
“Preventing the authorities from connecting the dots is going to be difficult. You’ve got two men at the Pentagon, plus three retired Navy SEALs. It won’t take a rocket scientist to make the connections. I’ve already linked the Pentagon men. But what’s the connection between the three SEALs?”
None of your concern.
“Not even a hint?”
Focus on your assignment. Complete it as soon as possible.
The secure connection terminated and the messages disappeared from Mixell’s phone.
He put the phone down and focused on the remaining two men on his list. Hoskins was next, and his thoughts soon shifted to Jake Harrison. Mixell envisioned several possible scenarios, searching for the one that would inflict the most emotional and physical pain.
One scenario in particular was immensely appealing.
He was saving Harrison for last. When it happened, he would savor every moment.
20
USS MICHIGAN
“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact on the towed array, designated Sierra eight-five, ambiguous bearings three-one-five and zero-four-five. High-frequency tonal detection only. Analyzing.”
Lieutenant Brian Resor, on watch as the submarine’s Officer of the Deck, acknowledged Sonar’s report via the microphone mounted above the Conn.
“Sonar, Conn. Aye.”
Finally, something noteworthy to investigate.
They had been at it for days, scouring Michigan’s operating area for sign of the small and elusive UUV. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Sonar had identified hundreds of contacts, each subsequently classified as a merchant ship or other surface craft. This contact, however, seemed promising. Sonar had picked up Sierra eight-five only via high-frequency tonals, which traveled short distances compared to the lower frequency and broadband noise normally emitted by surface ships.
In concert with Resor’s thoughts, Sonar made the report he’d been hoping for.
“Conn, Sonar. Sierra eight-five is classified submerged. Tonals correlate to the target of interest.”
Resor acknowledged, then pulled the 27-MC microphone from its holder and pressed the button for the Captain’s stateroom. “Captain, Officer of the Deck. Hold a new submerged contact on the towed array. Tonals match the target of interest.”
Captain Wilson acknowledged and entered the Control Room a moment later. Stepping onto the Conn, he examined the contact frequencies on the display. Satisfied the contact was the UUV, he gave the order everyone aboard had been waiting for since they departed Bahrain.
“Man Battle Stations Torpedo.”
The Chief of the Watch, stationed at the Ballast Control Panel on the port side of Control, twisted a lever on his panel, and the gong, gong, gong of the submarine’s General Emergency alarm reverberated throughout the ship. As the alarm faded, the Chief of the Watch picked up his 1-MC microphone, repeating the Captain’s order over the shipwide announcing system.
Crew members streamed into Control, taking their seats at dormant consoles, bringing them to life as they donned sound-powered phone headsets. Sonar technicians passed through Control on their way to the Sonar Room while supervisors gathered behind their respective stations and other personnel throughout the ship reported to their battle stations.
Three minutes after the order, the Chief of the Watch reported, “Officer of the Deck, Battle Stations are manned.”
Resor acknowledged and passed the report to Wilson, who announced, “This is the Captain. I have the Conn. Lieutenant Resor retains the Deck.”
Wilson would manage the tactical situation and control the submarine’s movements, while Resor monitored the navigation picture and handled routine ship evolutions.
“Designate Sierra eight-five as Master one,” Wilson said. “Track Master one.”
The process from this point was straightforward: develop a firing solution for the target, proceed to Firing Point Procedures, and shoot. What was not entirely straightforward was what the UUV would do in response or even before Wilson sent their torpedo on its way.
The UUV clearly had the ability to track and identify targets of interest, and a submarine in its waterspace would definitely meet that criterion unless it was informed a friendly unit was passing through. Based on what happened to Stethem, that safety feature could not be relied upon. If the UUV detected Michigan, it could easily attack it.