Verbeck turned to Hoskins again.
“About an hour. It depends on how depleted the UUV battery is.”
“Then we’ll need to end this videocon soon so I can get Michigan below the thermocline again.”
“I understand,” Verbeck replied. “Do you have any more questions?”
“I do. Is the mother ship weaponized?”
There was a tense moment in the conference room before Hoskins answered.
“Yes.”
“What weapons does it carry?”
“MK 48 ADCAP, MOD 7.”
Wilson appeared to be evaluating the revised scenario. Instead of dealing with a UUV carrying a single lightweight torpedo, he now faced an automated, full-size submarine carrying heavyweight torpedoes, with warheads over six times more powerful than those built into lightweight torpedoes.
“How many torpedoes?”
“A full torpedo room’s worth,” Hoskins replied. “A Seawolf torpedo room.”
Wilson nodded solemnly. A Seawolf torpedo room carried fifty torpedoes, twice that of other U.S. fast-attack submarines and three times what Michigan carried.
“I understand,” he replied. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Not that I can think of,” Verbeck replied. She looked to Hoskins, who shook his head.
“Thank you for your time, Secretary Verbeck. We’ll destroy the UUV and mother ship as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your assistance in this matter.”
The secure videocon terminated, and the display went black.
There was silence in the conference room until Hoskins spoke. “This has gotten out of hand. If he sinks that submarine — ”
Verbeck cut him off. “Wilson will be to blame, not us. He has no official direction to sink that submarine aside from the verbal order I just gave him — he has nothing in writing. He’ll just be an overzealous captain who exceeded his authority. What matters is that the UUV and the information it collected is destroyed.”
Hoskins didn’t reply, but his face was tight. He had agreed to lend his assistance in the matter, but his resolve was wavering.
Verbeck considered the tenuous relationship with her military aide. His demise couldn’t come fast enough. What was taking so long?
22
DICKERSON, MARYLAND
Sitting atop a large boulder beside the mountain trail, Lonnie Mixell aimed his binoculars through an opening in the trees, surveying the parking lot at the foot of Sugarloaf Mountain. Aside from his car, there was one other vehicle, with a woman and young girl inside, the woman with a phone to her ear. Another car pulled into the lot and parked. Navy Captain Andy Hoskins stepped from the vehicle with a water bottle in one hand, which he placed in a fanny pack he clipped around his waist.
Clearly a weekend warrior.
It was warm this morning, already eighty degrees, and Mixell wore only shorts and a T-shirt. His P226 pistol was in his backpack beside him, but he wouldn’t need it today. He put his binoculars away and loosened the laces of his right shoe, then slid down to the ground with his back against the boulder. It’d be about ten minutes before Hoskins made his way up the trail.
From his backpack, Mixell pulled out a small container and unscrewed the base, revealing a ring inside with a sharp metal point the size of a tack and covered by a transparent plastic sheath. Mixell slid the ring onto his right hand, then rotated it until the metal point faced in toward his palm.
The metal tip was coated with a poison that would paralyze the heart, simulating a heart attack within minutes. It was also coated with a numbing agent, so the victim wouldn’t feel the puncture and suspect anything until it was too late.
As expected, Hoskins appeared on the trail ten minutes later, still a fair bit away, partially visible through the foliage. What wasn’t expected, however, was that he was accompanied by a young girl about ten years old.
The girl in the car with the woman.
Mixell connected the dots. Hoskins was divorced and his wife had custody of their daughter. This was his weekend with her, and he had decided to take her hiking with him this time. The woman and girl had been waiting in the parking lot for Hoskins to arrive.
Mixell chastised himself for his inadequate reconnaissance and assessment, not accounting for the possibility that Hoskins’s daughter would accompany him on his next hike. He analyzed the issue quickly, deciding he would kill only Hoskins and not his daughter. He killed people who deserved to be killed, with deserved meeting a broad definition that included those he’d been paid to kill and those he wanted to kill. But innocent kids were typically off-limits.
He’d have to be careful, poisoning only Hoskins and not the girl. The situation wasn’t ideal. He preferred that the girl not be with her dad when he dropped dead, but he had other issues to attend to and couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste.
Hoskins and his daughter emerged from the foliage and spotted him leaning against the boulder, the laces of his right shoe loosened.
“Are you okay?” Hoskins asked.
“Sprained my ankle,” Mixell replied. “I sure could use a hand.”
“I’ll help,” the daughter said as she moved eagerly toward him.
“Thanks, sweetie, but I’m too heavy. I’ll need your dad’s help.” He shifted his gaze to Hoskins. “If you could help me down the mountain, I’d really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Hoskins replied as he stepped toward Mixell.
As the man approached, Mixell reached into the palm of his right hand and removed the plastic sheath from the poisoned tack. He extended his right hand and Hoskins gripped it, pulling Mixell to his feet. Hoskins seemed not to notice the tack penetrating his palm; the numbing agent worked as advertised.
“Thanks,” Mixell said, gingerly putting weight onto his right ankle. “Wow,” he said. “It feels much better now.” He took a tentative step. “You know what? I think I can make it back down by myself.”
“You sure?” Hoskins asked.
Mixell took another few steps, putting more weight on his right foot. “Yeah, I can make it. I just needed to rest for a while.”
“I’d be happy to help you down,” Hoskins offered again.
Mixell preferred he not be around once the toxin took effect, not wanting to be associated with Hoskins’s death.
“Thanks, but I’ll be all right. Why don’t you enjoy the hike with your daughter?”
“All right,” Hoskins said as Mixell grabbed his backpack and started down the mountain. “But be careful!”
Mixell waved his appreciation as he kept moving, then carefully slid the plastic sheath back onto the ring’s tack, concealing the action with his body.
A few minutes later, as Mixell worked his way down the trail, he heard a young girl’s faint scream from farther up the mountain.
He smiled.
That leaves Harrison.
23
POTOMAC, MARYLAND
On the second floor of her residence, Brenda Verbeck closed the door to the study and approached Dan Snyder, who had his back to her as he examined one of the oil paintings on the wall. While not up to Snyder’s standards — only paintings worth ten million dollars or more would grace the walls of his mansion — the six-figure abstract painting complemented the study’s décor quite well.
As usual, Snyder was dressed to impress, wearing one of his expensive Desmond Merrion suits. Brenda stopped behind him and, when he seemed not to notice, cleared her throat.