Authors: Philip Chen
"Any idea what's going on?" said Mike.
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."
1130 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Pautuxent Naval Air Test Center
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.
The convoy turned left at Huntersville Road. The black panel truck also slowed down at Huntersville Road and turned left. The truck was followed by a yellow Cutlass Ciera driven by a woman in her late thirties with her two school-aged children. The white furniture truck turned left as well on to Huntersville Road.
The woman driving the yellow Cutlass had spent the morning in Lexington Park, Maryland, and was now driving to La Plata, Maryland, where her mother lived, to have lunch and let Grandma spend some time with her two children. Her morning had been spent quietly shopping and she was looking forward to a leisurely drive to her mother's farm.
The black panel truck accelerated as it went west on Huntersville Road. Within minutes it was only a few car lengths behind the last Suburban. A dark blue Bell Ranger helicopter flew several miles behind the convoy. When the black panel truck turned left on to Huntersville Road, the helicopter also banked left, maintaining a steady distance behind the truck.
At a point on the road where there was no oncoming traffic, the black panel truck passed the three Suburbans. As the panel truck roared past each Suburban, their drivers quickly checked out the truck. The occupants of the Suburbans all quietly picked up a weapon and armed it, carefully holding the weapons underneath the windows of the trucks.
As the black panel truck roared by on the narrow road, all that the occupants of the Suburbans saw was a middle-aged Caucasian male, apparently in a hurry to get somewhere. The black panel truck roared off into the distance. The palpable tension in the three Suburbans eased as the panel truck became smaller and smaller and finally disappeared from view.
In the rear of the third Suburban, a lance corporal scanned the traffic that followed the convoy. He saw two vehicles, a yellow Cutlass with a plumpish white female driver and what seemed to be two small children some distance from the convoy and a white truck even farther behind with the name, Catonsville Furniture Bedding. In the far distance, he noticed a blue civilian Bell Ranger helicopter apparently heading a different direction. The Marine concluded that the helicopter was either a corporate or news aircraft, nothing to worry about.
The Marine reported to Major Bernstein, "Major, I don't see anything unusual just a woman with two kids, a furniture truck, and some general aviation stuff."
"Keep looking, we can't be too sure."
"Yes, sir."
1300 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland
After rounding the bend in the road several miles ahead of the convoy, along a deserted stretch of highway bounded by woods on both sides, Jerry Mitchell pulled his black panel truck off the road onto a small unmarked dirt trail and parked it deep into the woods. Working quickly, he took out the small rocket launcher from the back of the truck, set the launcher behind some brush, armed the surface to surface missile and waited amongst the tangle of brush and scrub pines. The launcher, little more than four feet in length, was camouflaged.
Mitchell started to sweat. His years of training and his even longer years in deep cover had come to this. A family man and a likable lumber yard worker, Mitchell had received the telephone call early this morning. He hurried to get dressed and looked in on six year old Sarah and eight year old Tommy still asleep at that early hour. He had told Tommy that he would help him with T-Ball after work, but Mitchell knew in his heart that there would be no way he would be able to keep that promise today, maybe ever.
Leaving for work, Mitchell had paused to kiss his wife, hoping she wouldn't note the worry. Walking out to his black panel truck which he had bought used two months ago, Mitchell had fretted that he should have painted over the stenciled name, but that was neither here nor there given his duty today.
The lead Suburban rounded the bend on Huntersville Road. As the vehicle approached his location, Mitchell counted off the ticks emitting from the sonar range finder that had come with the rocket launcher. As the ticking sound started to become individually indistinguishable, Mitchell pushed the button on his remote control.
1315 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland
Following the convoy and noting the upcoming bend in the road, the young driver put his foot down on the accelerator on his Ford F-100 truck, swung into the opposing lane and quickly passed the Cutlass with the plumpish woman and her two kids. He rapidly closed in but was careful not to give the impression that he was trying to catch up with the convoy.
Inside the back of the white F-100 Ford truck, twelve men sat on the floor. The seriousness of the situation was painted on each face. They had practiced such an exercise, but the feeling gnawing at the stomach of each man told them that this was it, this was real, this was the why they existed.
Each man was a trained agent, periodically summoned for training by John Trent, their commander and their connection for news from home. For some the news was of families left behind. They had lived for years in this hated alien place, waiting for this day.
Trent, in turn, received his orders directly from the leader. The identity of the leader was a closely held secret. He communicated to group leaders like Trent through elaborate schemes. Direct contact such as the early morning telephone call to Trent at his residence was most unusual.
The weapons resting in the laps of the twelve had been purchased through mail order houses or from the countless gun shops that seemed to proliferate in rural Maryland. Their skillful weapons man had converted the semi-automatic weapons to automatic. Some of the men had obtained coveted Israeli Uzi machine guns, but most had Colt AR-15 rifles. One fellow cradled a Striker 12.
1320 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Huntersville Road, Eastern Shore, Maryland
"Holy shit!" said Lee as he watched the small rocket spin toward his Suburban. He immediately swung his steering wheel to the right, hoping to evade the heat-seeking missile now bearing down on this vehicle. The rocket caught the Suburban just under its strengthened front grill. The force of the explosion tossed the Suburban up into the air and flipped it on its side. As the mass of twisted steel screeched a spine-chilling cry, the Suburban came to a stop perpendicular to its original path, blocking the narrow, two-lane road.