“Everything okay, gentlemen?” the driver asked, opening the doors.
“Went fine, ensign,” Norton answered.
“Where to now?”
“Back to Seal Beach. The O Club. Hungry, Mr. Cross?”
“A little, but I could sure use a drink.”
In the Officer’s Club, at the Seal Beach NWS, the Commander treated Cross to drinks and dinner. He had been on his cell most of the evening talking to Broward, Poole and the VOQ. When he had asked Broward permission to bring the Adam team aboard, he was told, “Of course, you fool, how the hell else am I going to learn about our mission?” It was the Broward he remembered.
Poole’s call went much better. She had secured a landing spot at the nearby sixteen-hundred-acre MCAS Tustin, closed years earlier to make room for a gigantic city park; its runway, a two-thousand-foot diameter landing pad, was used for landing wartime blimps during WWII. Now fenced from the public, it was still usable. She pulled rank and had it opened for her use. The team would meet there around eight a.m. to board the Osprey. It was only a short drive from the Crime Lab; a brief diversion from their normal morning drive. A quick call back to Broward scheduled the Osprey’s pickups. It would leave the Trident Tine’s deck at oh-seven-hundred hours.
Finishing dessert, ready to leave, Norton dropped his credit card over the check. He pulled his phone, glanced at Cross, and dialed the VOQ.
“Sorry sir, we are full tonight. No rooms available,” he heard.
“Who am I speaking with?”
“CPO Smith, sir.”
“Well Smith, I have a Vice Admiral here with me needing a room for tonight. Admiral Cross, CIA. He’ll be really disappointed if you can’t find him a room. Are the rooms all filled with three-star Admirals?” He winked at Cross, waiting for the answer.
“No sir, of course not.”
“Well then, bump someone dammit. We’ll be there shortly after he changes from his uniform. He’s traveling under cover.”
“Yes, sir! I’ll make it happen.”
“Thank you soldier, I’ll mention your cooperation to your superior.”
Switching off, he smiled. “A little disinformation never hurts anyone. Come on, let’s get you to your quarters.”
Ten minutes later at the VOQ, Norton, assured that Cross had been assigned a room, bid him goodnight, scheduled a seven-thirty meeting at the nearby helipad and left for home.
ASEA
The Osprey loaded them in Seal Beach and turned north toward MCAS Tustin, heading for the Adam taskforce pickup. The old base below showed two immense hangars visible out the windows; a large circular tarmac pad separated them. They were hovering several thousand feet up, dropping quickly.
“Holy hell,” said Cross, peering below, “what are those buildings below us. They’re gigantic.”
Norton smiled. “They’re hangars. They once housed blimps, dirigibles, during World War II. Each one housed six to seven blimps at a time. The structures are said to be the largest wooden buildings on earth, six acres in area, and twenty stories tall. The round tarmac area between them is our landing pad. Once used to lunch and land blimps, it’s almost a half-mile across. See that small group off to the side by the parked cars? That’s our team.”
Edging closer to the window, Cross marveled at the sight. He had heard of the huge hangars before but never imagined they would be so overwhelming. From the Osprey’s height, members of the team were still unrecognizable, but he saw a few hats and uniforms that he already knew. The campaign hat, worn by a uniformed CHP officer, surprised him.
“Please tighten your harnesses for landing,” announced Harper. “Welcome to Marine Corps Air Station Tustin, home of the largest hangars in the world.”
With the rotors spinning to a stop, the door now open, the team filed up the stairs into the cabin. Lt. Poole, then Dover, then Strong, then Gibbs boarded, nodded as they entered, and filled the jump seats around him. Then another face he didn’t recognize, he assumed was Gruber, and finally a uniformed figure wearing the CHP campaign hat. He knew the face! It was him, the Briscoe he knew from long ago.
“Chief Briscoe!” he shouted over the whining turbines.
The look on Briscoe’s face was indescribable. He stared at Cross, squinting his eyes. “Matthew Cross, is that you?”
He stood, dropping his duffel bag off his lap, and hugged Briscoe. The team sat watching, smiles growing. “What are you doing here, you young whipper-snapper? Are you still in the Navy?”
“No, I got out right after Point Mugu. I couldn’t take the regimentation any longer.”
“Aww, was I too tough on you?” said Briscoe, snickering.
“Well, maybe. That and the Navy wanted to put me in a desk job to diversify my talents.”
“So really, why are you here, Matt?”
“The Navy chose me and my mini-sub to lead the search for Adam. I just flew down from up north, by Monterey.”
“Where’s your sub?”
“They’re bringing it down on the ship we’re headed for.”
“Damn, boy! You’re that good?” Briscoe beamed, “So I must have taught you well. I had a hunch you were going far.”
Blushing, Cross said, “Here, sit by me. We’re lifting off,” offering the adjacent seat. “Let’s talk.”
“No, Matt I can’t. I’m still radioactive. Best to stay a few feet away until the drugs I’m on dump the isotopes from my system.”
“Well, it’s so great to see you again, Mica,” Cross said. “I’m glad you’re on the team. I can always use a co-pilot for my sub. I never thought I’d see the chance to have the master himself working with me.”
Briscoe smiled, said, “Um-hmm,” and sat in a rear jump seat.
Ten minutes passed before the intercom crackled, “Folks, we’re approaching the Trident Tine. Five miles offshore of Dana Point. Please check your harnesses in preparation for landing. If you’re prone to vertigo, don’t look down, it’s a small landing pad.”
The landing was smooth, smoother than their police helicopter’s landings. The door flew open, the stairs dropped at the crewman’s touch. “Watch your step. It’s a long way down.”
Single file, they met Broward at the bottom of the stairs. Jovial, joking, and courteous, he eagerly awaited their information. He had imagined strange scenarios involving lost Russian submarines, downed spy satellites, and even alien spaceship crashes, but he never imagined what he was minutes from hearing.
The group assembled in a large wood-paneled wardroom on the second deck, down the hallway from the mess hall. Aromas of breakfast cooking drifted through the room, drawing their attention from him.
He could hear stomachs growling, rumbling as he spoke. “Welcome to the R/VS Trident Tine, the largest and finest search vessel in our Navy’s fleet. We’ve been called out on your request, Lieutenant Poole, but I haven’t the slightest idea why. Now would you please tell me why the hell I’m out here with over one-hundred-fifty sailors picking our noses waiting for instructions?”
She wanted to scream back, but remained calm. She knew tensions were running high, expecting the worst, but hoping for the best.
She passed him a thick folder, marked ADAM from her briefcase, and answered, “Captain Broward, it’s a very sensitive, complex situation. Even Washington doesn’t know all the details. We have Agent Lashawn Gibbs from the Department of Homeland Security on our team, and that’s as far as it goes. They say it’s California’s problem, even though they estimate thirty-one million people across the southern half of the U.S. will perish or be affected if we fail.” Gibbs nodded confirmation.