More like obsession, but whatever.
She couldn’t bear the thought of some low-life pond scum sullying the good name of her father’s Navy by giving secrets to the enemy. Worse, she couldn’t stomach the nameless piece of shit putting lives at risk for a paltry sum or piece of pussy. Workaholic or not, she lost sleep over the sailor she knew only as KMART.
She opened the message and read through it twice, each time with increasing dread.
TEXT FROM INTERCEPTED TRANSMISSION FOLLOWS.
FROM: KMART
TO: TANDY
1. TARGET AIRCRAFT SURVIVED. OPERATION FAILED.
2. SEND INSTRUCTIONS.
Target aircraft survived? What the fuck?
She looked across the table and saw Rick’s normally stoic face creased with a worried frown. He glanced up at her, and they made eye contact. His voice lowered to a hush, barely audible over the surrounding clamor of the microbrewery’s patio. “What operation?”
“Not here,” she said.
He nodded and pulled out three twenty-dollar bills, tossing them onto the table next to the untouched beers. Together, they rose and headed for the exit, weaving their way through the crowded patio. After leaving the bar, they descended to the parking lot for a modicum of privacy and walked to the far side where she had backed her car into a spot.
“None of their previous communications mentioned an operation,” she said, leaning against the driver’s door while scanning their surroundings. “What do you make of it?”
Rick looked away and stared at the breakwater that defined the channel into Alamitos Bay. “It doesn’t sound good,” he said. “It sounds like our boy KMART is doing more than just giving up secrets.”
She had to admit she read it the same way. “If there was some type of sabotage on the carrier, the entire fleet will be buzzing with rumors. I need to get back down to San Diego and see if anything shakes loose.”
“Punky, it’s late. Let’s just nab TANDY when he shows.”
She shook her head. “We can’t risk losing his connection to KMART. We need to stop him, Uncle Rick.”
Without waiting for his concurrence, she swung open the door and dropped into the tan driver’s seat. Rick closed the door and leaned in over her. “You sure you can handle this?”
The question could have been taken any number of ways, but she knew what he meant. The men in her life had been making the same assumptions for as long as she could remember. She was too feminine to play water polo, too pretty to go into law enforcement, and too timid to drive her dad’s restored 1974 Corvette Stingray. Each time, she answered by letting her actions speak for themselves.
I can handle anything.
She turned the key, and the car shuddered as the starter cranked over the 7.4 V8 and caught with a throaty growl. She put her foot on the gas pedal and goosed the throttle, answering his question with a smile.
“I’m gonna catch the bastard,” she said, then smoked the tires as she peeled out of her parking space.
Rick watched the Corvette that had belonged to his best friend tear out of the parking lot and remembered when Terry had brought it home. It was almost as vivid as the memory of when he had brought Punky home too. Even as a baby, the girl had spunk. But the version she had grown into was one Terry would have been proud of.
You should see her, bro.
She was prettier than she knew; tall and athletic, with piercing blue eyes over an olive complexion that hinted at her mother’s Israeli heritage. But it was her smarts and toughness that came from Terry — qualities that had made him one hell of a SEAL, and her one hell of a counterintelligence officer.
With a shake of his head, he watched the Corvette disappear, then climbed into the silver BMW M5 sport sedan that had come with the boat. If he was going to act the part of a rich pleasure boater, it wouldn’t do to have him spotted coming and going in an overly pedestrian vehicle, like a Ford Focus. But unless TANDY showed, it really didn’t matter what kind of car he was in.
It was a short drive from the bar to the yacht club where the boat was docked, and he spent the time wondering where he had gone wrong. Between the NSA’s intercepted communications and correlated hits on an airborne Stingray, the intel had been solid enough to grant him dedicated air support for surveillance. But still nothing. He pulled into the marina’s lot and parked next to a blue Jeep Wrangler, then descended onto the dock and sauntered to his slip.
Rick stepped from the dock onto the fifty-foot fishing boat’s stern and glanced across the water at the brewery’s bright lights before unlocking the cabin and stepping into the spacious saloon. The boat was connected to shore power, so he flipped a switch to turn on the lights and descended to the small galley to splash lukewarm water on his face. After drying it with a dish rag, he slipped an earpiece into his ear and glanced at the chronometer on the wall to estimate when he would hear from the pilot.
“Delta One, Air One,” the voice said in his earpiece.
Speak of the devil, Rick thought. “Go ahead.”
“On station. Currently tracking multiple small craft, but no bites.”
He groaned and paced across the saloon, stepping out onto the aft deck to look up into the air. Somewhere up there was a Cessna Turbo Stationair from the Surveillance and Aviation Section fitted with an electro-optical and infrared sensor mounted on the fuselage. But it was the Stingray on board that would be their secret weapon.
“Copy. Keep me updated.”
“Air One, out.”
Rick turned and climbed up to the fly bridge, plopping himself into one of the vinyl chairs overlooking the sleek bow. The boat was far nicer than the ones he had spent time on in his previous life, but he had a sense of familiarity being alone on the water in the darkness. Now, the bastard just needed to show up.
In the sky above Long Beach, the FBI pilot turned his Cessna west and went feet wet over the coastline headed out to sea. He had to admit the prospect of the assignment was better than what he normally worked on. When they had sent him to Long Beach, he had assumed he would be tasked with tracking subjects suspected of money laundering, or, at best, collecting intelligence on one of the many drug cartels that had moved into the area. But this? This is some real Jack Ryan shit!
“Cessna Four Oh Two Charlie Whiskey, switch to So Cal on twenty-five, thirty-five,” the Air Traffic Controller said.
“Twenty-five, thirty-five,” he parroted. “See ya.”
He changed the frequency, then looked down at the surveillance equipment’s control panel.
Nada.
The FBI’s fleet of single-engine turboprop Cessnas all carried the same basic gear, but a few were modified based on the needs of the operation. An external sensor pod hung on the left side of the fuselage and transmitted video to a monitor inside the cockpit. But so far, the boats sailing up and down the coast hadn’t triggered his suspicion. At least not to the threshold of espionage.
“So Cal, Cessna Four Oh Two Charlie Whiskey, VFR at two thousand feet, squawking two two five one,” he said, letting the controller know his transponder code so the turboprop could be identified on radar.
“Cessna Two Charlie Whiskey, So Cal, radar contact. Maintain VFR.”
He steered the Cessna 206 Turbo Stationair toward Catalina Island under Visual Flight Rules and pressed his face against the window, looking down on the dim lights of container ships anchored and waiting to offload their cargo in the ports of Los Angeles and Long Beach. Delta One believed a spy was somewhere down there, but so far, the Stingray had been silent. He double-checked his equipment just to be sure.