Navy SEAL Grant Stevens: Code Name Antares Part 2

Kalinin glanced quickly at the two security men, then drew his weapon. Keeping it out of view, holding it low in front of him, he questioned, "One or both, sir?"

"You are confident enough to take out both?"

"I am, sir, except I probably do not need to remind you that you are going to need a ride back to the emba.s.sy."

Vazov finally cracked a smile. "Never mind. I trust your ability."

Kalinin slid the weapon back into his waistband. "Sir, I will do anything you ask of me, but I have a request, and suggestions."

Vazov tilted his head. "Go ahead."

"Mr. Amba.s.sador, you know I only rent the house I am currently living in. I do not want any devices installed."

"I a.s.sume you mean a scrambler or shortwave?"

"Yes, sir. I cannot take the chance that my landlord will inspect the property. And if I must leave in an emergency, it might take too long to disa.s.semble and remove the equipment."

"But what if you need to use the safe house? You realize both those devices are installed."

"If circ.u.mstances dictate that I go there, then those would undoubtedly become a necessity. But I hope that will not happen."

Vazov was beginning to feel less and less like Kalinin's handler. On the other hand, he was impressed by the younger man's forward-thinking and ability to take charge. From this first meeting, Vazov realized Russia's newest "sleeper" would serve her well.

Vazov struggled slightly trying to stand. Kalinin held his arm, a.s.sisting him. "Let us go to my car, Nicolai. This evening is not treating me well."

The two men settled into the leather back seat of the Mercedes. Vazov reached overhead and turned on a reading light, then removed a large envelope from the front seat pocket, and a folded piece of paper from his jacket. "The paper lists our established 'dead drop' sites."

Kalinin glanced at the list. "I will familiarize myself with these." He refolded the paper, slipping it into his leather jacket.

Vazov handed him the envelope. "This will be your first a.s.signment."

Kalinin nodded. He removed the papers from the envelope. Three sets, each set stapled. "Were these left at the same location?"

"No. Each set of papers was retrieved from different 'drop' sites."

Kalinin examined photos and every page. As far as specifications, very little was listed.

All the while Vazov kept his eyes on him, watching to see if there was any form of emotion. But there was none. The younger man was completely in control.

"Well, Nicolai, do you have an idea on what that weapon could be? Why have the Americans labeled it 'Top Secret'?"

Kalinin dropped the envelope on the seat. He turned slightly, looking at Vazov. "There is not much to go on, but I would say it has to do with some type of laser technology. But since it is cla.s.sified as top secret, there is obviously something very special about it. Do you know exactly how many weapons are being 'offered'?"

"Not yet."

"And has a meeting been set up with the individual, 'Primex'?"

"Moscow has just approved our request to proceed. Misha will meet him at whatever location and time he has chosen. I can only a.s.sume that is when details will be given about the 'transfer' of the weapon. At least that is what I am antic.i.p.ating. He indicated there may be another meeting afterward. Why he is insisting on separate meetings, I do not know.

"As soon as I return to the emba.s.sy, I will have Misha go to the location and make the mark. Then we must wait until we are contacted."

"Am I correct in a.s.suming that once the meeting takes place, I will be in control of the mission?"

Vazov smiled slightly. "You will still report to me while you are here in the U.S., but yes, the plan for the mission is entirely in your hands."

"And what about funds, sir? Equipment will be needed, payoffs will . . ."

"I will give you enough cash that should see you through this a.s.signment. Remember, when it is time for you to move the weapon or weapons, you will have access to Russia's jet at Dulles International Airport."

"From what I understand, sir, in order to give the 'merchandise' diplomatic immunity, official papers must be filled out."

"That is correct. I will give you a seal and a special stamp. You must remember that each package must be clearly marked 'diplomatic pouch.'"

"I understand," Kalinin nodded. "And once I have secured the weapons, will you contact our comrades in Moscow?"

"The decision was already made that you will deliver them to Moscow. Then, once in Moscow, arrangements will be made for transferring half to the Afghans, however many that may be. My contact in Kabul is Major Zubarev. He is dealing with the Afghans." Vazov detected something in the face of the younger Russian. "What is it?"

"You mentioned our aircraft at Dulles, and I realize at this point we do not know how many weapons will be made available, nor do we have an exact date when this will happen, but. . ."

"What is your concern?"

"My concern only pertains to multiple weapons, perhaps ten or more, and if that is the case, I believe we should not put all the weapons aboard the aircraft. If anything happened. . ."

"I understand. And your suggestion is?"

Kalinin hesitated, letting the idea roll around his brain, confident that it was plausible. "We have cargo ships traveling up and down the American coast, do we not?" Vazov nodded. "Do we have any carriers operating in or close to the Mediterranean?"

"Two. Why?"

"As soon as we learn of a date for the 'transfer' of the weapons, would you be able to put the captain of a cargo vessel on alert?"

"You want to deliver the weapons to that ship? But how?"

"I will find a way. Then, once the cargo ship is within range of the carrier's helicopters, the weapons can be picked up and delivered to Kabul. I will personally make the delivery to Moscow."

Vazov could only wonder how Kalinin was able to put this plan together in only a matter of minutes. "I will see what I can do." He reached inside his jacket. "You may need this. Do you know what it is?"

Kalinin took the envelope then removed a small book, barely two by three inches. He flipped through the tiny code book. "Yes, sir. I remember my parents using one. It is a 'one-time pad.'" A one-time pad is a type of encryption almost impossible to crack. Characters from plain text are encrypted by the use of a character from a secret random key (pad) of the same length as the plain text. This results in a cipher text. Each code page is used one time. The code is printed on sheets of chemically treated paper called "flash paper." Once heated it converts to nitrocellulose, then burns almost instantly, leaving no ash. The two men had exactly the same book.

He put the book in his pocket. "Once I have the weapons that are going to Moscow, I will write a coded message on page eight of the Washington Post, and leave it under the emba.s.sy gate. You can have the seal and doc.u.ments left at one of our drop sites."

"Why not leave the message at a drop site, Nicolai?"

"I believe this would be the fastest way, without your men having to make several trips looking for a message."

"It appears you have thought of everything, Nicolai."

"I hope so, Mr. Amba.s.sador."

Vazov indicated with a thumb over his shoulder. "I have large canvas pouches in the trunk. I am hoping you will be able to use them for the weapons."

"If they are not large enough, I am sure I can 'break' down the weapons."

"Oh, I kept your Russian pa.s.sport." He patted his inside pocket. "I will see that it shows you are a diplomatic courier and ensure it has proper date stamps, coinciding with countries you have 'visited.' One of the men will leave it our drop site.

"Remember, Nicolai, unless there is an absolute emergency, do not phone the emba.s.sy."

Kalinin got out, then leaned in. "Of course, sir. I will only use the means discussed."

"Good night, Nicolai."

"Good night, Mr. Amba.s.sador." He closed the door, went to the Camaro, and slid behind the wheel. He started the engine, but waited until the Mercedes was out of sight before he turned on headlights.

As he drove through the park, he remembered his parents. He hadn't thought much about them over the last several years. But talking about them briefly with the amba.s.sador made him remember the years he had with them. Maybe for the first time in his life, he was grateful they had been his parents.

Nicolai Kalinin was born one month prior to his parents leaving Kursk, Russia. Traveling under false American doc.u.ments with the last name "Broyce," they were smuggled into Geneva, Switzerland. For the next three years the Kalinins worked at the International School of Geneva. The jobs were menial, but they established themselves as reliable, compa.s.sionate people. When he was three, they moved to the U.S., settling in a small town outside Charlottesville, Virginia. They were welcomed into an up-and-coming community, being treated like any other young American family. The mother and father held decent jobs, the family attended church on Sundays, and they supported their young son in his endeavors. They were devoted parents, preparing their son for his future in America.

Attending public schools with the name "James Broyce," he excelled in math and science, partic.i.p.ated in sports, and developed a love of baseball. After graduating high school, he joined the Navy, and served five years as an Interior Communications electrician. ICs directed and coordinated the installation, maintenance and repair of interior communications systems on ships and at sh.o.r.e facilities, including communication systems, indicating and navigation systems, visual landing aids for aircraft, and alarm, safety, and warning systems. After his final tour of duty, he moved back to Charlottesville. Taking advantage of the GI bill, he attended the University of Virginia, earning a B.S. in Electrical Engineering.

With the deep level of his cover, and a 4.0 grade point average, he was confident he'd be hired by a defense contractor. He applied for a college internship program with ZXR Corporation, and began the program one week after graduation. Over time he was promoted to different grade levels, and was always willing to take a.s.signments aboard Navy ships, training, repairing, upgrading systems.

He worked day after day, year after year, never knowing when he'd be called upon to serve Russia, or what he'd be asked to do. His day and time had finally come.

Chapter 4.

March.

Iwo Jima Memorial.

Monday - Day 1.

1950 Hours.

The temperature hovered just above forty-one degrees, as familiar March winds blew across Virginia and D.C. at thirteen knots, gusting to twenty. As usual, traffic along N. Mead Street was still heavy, but most occupants inside cars hardly took notice of the Memorial.

A door to the Chevy SUV closed. Grant screwed down his baseball cap, and zipped up his black windbreaker. Shoving his hands into the pockets, he started pacing back and forth along the lighted walkway behind the SUV. The call had come in on the special phone earlier in the day. No specifics had been given, only that he and Adler were to be at the Memorial by 2000 hours. More than one possibility ran through his mind.

Adler sat in the rear pa.s.senger seat, drinking a last mouthful of warm black coffee. He crushed the empty paper cup then stuck it in the door pocket. "There's more coffee in the thermos, Ken, Mike, and a couple bologna sandwiches in the bag."

"Thanks, LT," Ken Slade responded.

Sipping on his coffee, Novak looked in the rearview mirror watching Grant pace. Slade kept an eye out for any approaching vehicles.

Adler zipped up his old Navy khaki jacket before opening the door. He caught up to Grant. "Well, Skipper, has that brain of yours come up with any reasonable explanation why we've been 'invited' here?"

Grant stopped then leaned against the tailgate, and shook his head. "I can come up with plenty, Joe, but . . ."

"Boss," Slade interrupted, as he poked his head out the window. "There's a car comin'."

Grant and Adler walked along the side of the SUV, seeing headlights swing around the curve, lighting up them and the SUV.

The tan, 1978 Dodge Aspen was an unmarked vehicle previously owned by the Maryland State Police. The driver pulled into a parking s.p.a.ce and shifted into "Park." He switched on an overhead light, then made a notation on a clipboard. Laying the clipboard on the seat, he got out and walked to the Chevy.

He approached Grant and Adler. "Captain Stevens?" he asked with his eyes going from one to the other.

"I'm Grant Stevens," Grant responded, extending a hand.

"I'm Staff Sergeant Stu Reilly, sir, your driver for the evening." Reilly returned Grant's handshake. Even though he was active duty, as a member of the White House motor pool, and on standby twenty-four/seven, Reilly wore civilian clothes. He was about 5'8", with a slim build, and short, thick brown hair.

He turned to Adler. "Lieutenant Adler?"

"That's me," Adler nodded, offering his hand.

"It's routine for me to ask for your IDs, sirs."

Both Grant and Adler took out their wallets, then flipped them open. Grant noticed the staff sergeant had a weapon in a side holster. He and Adler left their .45s in the SUV.

Reilly took each wallet, and shined the light from a small flashlight on each State Department and retired military ID. "All right, sirs. It looks like we're ready for departure." He opened the rear pa.s.senger door. Adler slid in.

"Would you mind if I rode up front?" Grant asked.

"Not at all, sir." He opened the front door.

"Wait one," Grant said, as he turned around. "Mike, Ken, head back to Eagle 8. Contact the rest of the team and put them on standby as a 'just in case.' Matt should be on his way back from California. Make sure you contact him. I'll call you when we're ready for retrieval, which I a.s.sume will be somewhere in D.C."

"Roger that, boss," Novak responded, before starting the engine.

Grant got in the Dodge. "Okay. Let's go."

Reilly unhooked a mike from the Motorola Micor Radio attached under the dash. In the trunk was a multi-band transmitter, with two whip antennas attached outside.

"Reilly calling guard house. Over."

"Go ahead. Over."

"Departing with two guests. ETA ninety-minutes. Out."

Traffic leaving D.C. was still heavy. Oncoming headlights remained constant, while in front of the Dodge, red taillights became a blur. Once Reilly turned on Highway 270, traffic thinned. He pressed the accelerator and picked up speed, but was mindful of staying within the posted speed limit.