Christine replied defiantly, “I’m not going to let you have the satisfaction of making Jake watch me die.”
Mixell punched the hooked blade into Christine’s abdomen, twisted it, then yanked it out, tearing a small chunk of flesh with it. Christine cried out in pain, squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her jaw as blood flowed from the wound. Once the pain subsided somewhat and she looked at Mixell again, he detected indecision in her eyes.
“Again?” Mixell asked. “Or are you going to give me Jake’s number?”
She provided no answer, so Mixell jammed the knife into the other side of her abdomen, cutting out another small piece of flesh. This time, a muffled scream leaked from her mouth and she kept her eyes shut for a longer period of time. Blood was flowing from both puncture wounds, and perspiration had begun to bead on her face.
“More?” he asked.
“Please, Lonnie. Just stop.”
Mixell punched the blade into the center of Christine’s abdomen, then yanked it out, and this time her body convulsed for a few seconds and a moan escaped her throat.
He stepped closer to Christine and whispered in her ear. “Here’s the deal. If we invite Jake to our party tonight, there’s a chance, however slim, that you survive somehow. If we don’t call Jake” — he placed the knife against her neck — “we can end things right now.”
Mixell waited a moment for Christine to consider her fate, then asked again. “Would you like to provide Jake’s number?”
This time, Christine slowly nodded, and the phone number followed.
Mixell typed the number into his cell phone, then tapped the Call icon.
In the NCTC parking lot, Harrison and Khalila were walking toward the facility’s entrance when Harrison’s phone vibrated.
“Harrison here.”
“Jake, how are you doing, buddy?”
Harrison froze, unsure if he had correctly identified the caller’s voice. “Lonnie, is that you?”
“Who else would it be?”
“What have you done with Chris?”
“Don’t worry, she’s healthy enough at the moment.”
“If you hurt her, I swear to God, I’ll—”
“Oh, I’m afraid that I’m going to do a lot more than just hurt her.” Mixell’s voice was filled with a kind of amusement, bordering on outright glee. “With your assistance, however, she’ll suffer far less.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to finish what you set in motion when you turned me in. Angie’s fate has been resolved. That leaves you and Chris.”
“You sick bastard. Where are you?”
“Easy, buddy,” Mixell replied. “That’s no way to speak to someone who’s got a knife pressed against Chris’s neck.”
“How is she? Let me talk with her.”
“Just for a moment.”
After a short wait, he heard Christine’s voice. “Jake?” She sounded scared, but when she continued, her words came quickly and with conviction. “Don’t worry about me. When you come, bring the entire HRC and kill this—”
Harrison heard what sounded like a punch, the sound of flesh hitting flesh. He knew Mixell had hit her, which filled him with a white-hot rage.
“Where are you, Lonnie?”
“You know where to find me. Same place you killed Trish.”
“It was your bullet that killed Trish!”
“The same place you killed Trish,” Mixell repeated, seemingly believing his delusional reimagining of what happened. “Her death is entirely your fault, and it’s time you made amends for what you did. But I want you, and only you. If anyone else shows up, I’ll cut Chris to pieces. Do we have an understanding?”
Harrison considered Mixell’s offer and what it portended for his and Christine’s fates.
“We have an understanding,” Harrison replied. “I won’t be long.”
78
USS MICHIGAN
In the guided missile submarine’s Control Room, Captain Murray Wilson watched the battle unfold, attempting to discern what was happening from the icons on the combat control consoles and the various displays selectable on Conn monitors. Michigan remained in a thin sliver of waterspace spanning the strait just west of the minefield, which USS Theodore Roosevelt also occupied above. Farther west, the waterspace had been divided into six operating areas, each owned by one of the six fast attack submarines that had recently passed through the minefield into the Persian Gulf.
The plan was simple in concept. The entire width of the Persian Gulf west of the strait had been divided into six areas, and no Russian submarine could approach Theodore Roosevelt close enough to launch torpedoes without being engaged by one of the American fast attacks. Unfortunately, to prevent blue-on-blue engagements, the Americans could not take advantage of their superior numbers, at least not in a way that truly mattered.
In an ideal situation, the battle would pit a single Russian submarine against two American fast attacks simultaneously. But two U.S. submarines operating in the same waterspace required a stratum separation scheme, with one submarine operating shallow and the other deep. However, the Persian Gulf was too shallow to accommodate this scheme, which meant each American submarine was on its own within its operating area.
As Wilson studied the sonar displays and various consoles, the Russian strategy became clear. The Akulas were operating closely together on the north side of the gulf, attempting to slip by along the Iranian coast. An Akula had entered each of the three operating areas to the north. In those three areas, it’d be a one-on-one battle between Russian and American submarines.
Wilson brought Michigan to the northern side of the Persian Gulf to better monitor the battles as they unfolded, and also so Michigan could serve as a stopgap if one of the Russian submarines prevailed and a nearby fast attack wasn’t available.
The Akulas had slowed down upon detecting their American adversaries surging toward them as they exited the minefield, and each engagement had settled into the classic cat-and-mouse game as each submarine crew tried to determine a firing solution while both submarines frequently maneuvered. Eventually, the two submarines in the northernmost operating area engaged, with both launching torpedoes. After Sonar reported the dual launches, Wilson listened to the broadband sonar speaker for an indication of the battle’s outcome. Not long thereafter, the sound of a single explosion rumbled from the speakers.
“Sonar, Conn,” Wilson called out to the microphone above the Conn. “Can you determine which submarine was hit?”
“Conn, Sonar. Analyzing.” A moment later, Sonar reported, “Loss of fifty-point-two-Hertz tonal in the northern operating area. The Akula has been sunk.”
The tension in Michigan’s Control Room eased somewhat, as one of the three Akulas had been dispatched. As Wilson focused on the other two areas with Russian submarines, Sonar delivered a new report.
“Conn, Sonar. Gained a new contact in operating area Foxtrot, classified Yasen class.”
Wilson shifted his attention back to the northernmost operating area, where the Akula had been sunk. It appeared that the Yasen-class submarine — Krasnoyarsk, based on the submarines that had surged from Vladivostok — had joined the fray. As capable as the Akulas were, Krasnoyarsk was three decades newer, with much more capable sensors and tactical systems.
The replacement Russian submarine would be a more challenging opponent than the previous Akula, and Wilson monitored that operating area more closely than the others. Krasnoyarsk and its opponent engaged in maneuvers and analysis as each crew attempted to discern an adequate firing solution. Eventually, dual torpedo launches were detected, and Wilson waited tensely as Sonar reported both submarines increasing speed as they attempted to evade the incoming torpedoes. Time ticked away and there was no explosion; both submarines had survived.