The Siren Project (12 page)

Mitch hung up and dialed again quickly,
speaking to Christa without looking up. “They had to be watching the hotel this
morning. By now they’ve traced his car and know all about him.”

Lieutenant Commander Hayes answered
immediately.

“Don, it’s Mitch.”

“Hey man, I was about to call you. I’ve
been analyzing that sound you left me.”

“Have you spoken to anyone about it?”

“Nope. Just logging computer time.”

“Good. Stay low, there’s some nasty people
around. I don’t want them tracing you.”

“Sure thing, Mitch,” Hayes replied
confidently. “Can we meet? I’ve got something for you.”

“Anything you can give me over the phone? Meeting
could be dangerous.”

“Nope.”

Mitch knew at once whatever he had was
classified. “Do you remember that shore leave we had, just before my court
martial?”

“Aye.”

“Remember how we got out of town, where we
left from?”

“I don’t remember much once we got there,”
he said with a grin, remembering long nights of hard drinking. “But I know
where you mean.”

“Be there in one hour.”

“On my way.”

Mitch hung up and turned to Christa. “How
much cash have you got?”

She shook her head. “No money, no nothing. Remember?”

“Remind me to tell Knightly to give you a
pay rise,” Mitch said as he stepped to the curb and flagged a cab down. “I hope
this guy knows a short cut.”

Mitch and Christa climbed out of the
taxi at the entrance to the Friendship International Airport south of
Baltimore. On the drive out, they'd slipped their guns under the front seats
without the driver noticing, knowing that they would not get them through
security. As soon as they were inside, Mitch telephoned Mouse on one of the
numbers they'd set up for emergency contact, the number they all knew as
Contact B which used the relay in London to bounce the call back. Mouse could
remotely instruct the London computer to call any number so they could
constantly change locations and still remain in contact.

“You’ll have to pay for the tickets with
offshore money,” Mitch said. “I can’t risk using credit cards, they’re bound to
have a trace on them. Book them ten minutes before boarding, so even if they
trace you, there is no way they can get to the airport in time to stop us. I’ll
pick them up five minutes from boarding. You’ll have to use my name, as I’ll need
to show ID to collect them.”

“Understood,” Mouse said.

“I’ll re-establish contact when we get
there.”

“You don’t want us to meet you at the
airport?”

“No. They may be watching LAX. I’d rather
make sure we're not being followed, then you can bring us in.” Mitch hung up
and glanced at his watch. “Knowing the way he drives, Don’s already here.”

“Where are we meeting him?”

“He’s a sea dog. There's only one place
he’ll be.”

They found Commander Hayes waiting in the
bar, sitting at a table far from the door. They slid into the chairs opposite
him while Hayes downed the half shot of whiskey still in his glass and sighed
contentedly

“Perfect timing, Mitch,” Hayes declared,
indicating to the waitress to bring three more. “I thought I was going to have
to have the next one alone, and you know what a sociable fellow I am.”

“Yeah, much to my regret,” he said, wincing
at the thought of past misdeeds.

Hayes waited until the waitress placed the
drinks on the table, watched her appreciatively as she walked away, then turned
businesslike to Mitch. “Okay, here it is. Whatever you’re into, drop it. You’re
playing with fire.” Hayes took a sip of his whiskey. “Good thing I know you so
well, or I’d suspect you were spying on the U.S. military.”

Mitch’s eyes widened. “That bad, huh?”

“I ran that sound you gave me through the
library. I got a ninety two percent match on a thing called an AM-X particle
accelerator. That sucker is above top secret. Like I said, if I didn’t know you
so well . . . anyway, it’s not something you should be fooling with.”

Mitch glanced at Christa. “Ever heard of
it?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“I’d be surprised if you had,” Hayes said. “I
had to stretch my own security clearance to get the dope on it. Apparently, the
navy experimented with one about a year ago, trying to figure how accelerated
particles act under water. Some egghead thought it might have applications in
submarine warfare, jamming torpedo guidance systems, or disrupting enemy sub’s
electronic systems. Crap like that. Anyway, they never could get it to work,
but the sonic trace was still on file just in case some other country sent one
to sea.”

“It sounds like it’s the kind of technology
we’d expect,” Christa said thoughtfully. “The military application fits.”

Mitch rubbed the blister on his hand where
his cell phone had burned him. “Yeah, I can see how that would work. So what
exactly is an AM-X particle accelerator?”

“It accelerates charged particles to
incredible velocities. It’s heavy on juice, but once you get a particle up to
super velocities, you’ve got the potential for a lot of energy. You know, E=MC
²
.
A tiny mass traveling at a great velocity has enormous energy. The particles
can have a screwy effect on electrical fields and electronic devices. The
problem was finding a useful application for it.”

“Shorting out a submarine’s electronics
sounds useful to me,” Mitch said.

“Sure, except the water density diffused
the particles, and it made a God awful racket. Not exactly what you want when
silence is the name of the game.”

“So it’s like a laser?” Mitch asked

Hayes paused. “Kind of. A laser focuses
light, this thing focuses sub atomic particles, and apparently it can modulate
particle velocity. The trouble is there’s not much information available on it,
just enough so if one of our subs heard it, they could identify the sound in
their report. All the really secret stuff is hidden of course.”

“This is very useful information,
Commander,” Christa said. “It’s the first clear piece of the technological
puzzle.”

“So what’s the puzzle?”

Mitch was going to answer, but Christa cut
him off. “Commander, we cannot discuss it with you.”

Hayes looked disappointed, but nodded his
understanding. “Figured you’d say that.”

“Is there anything else we should know
about this particle thing?” Mitch asked.

“I’m still digging. But there can’t be too
many of them, this isn’t something you buy at Wal-Mart. What I don’t understand
is how you got close enough to record it. This kind of hardware is normally
locked away inside a military base, usually some place remote. Los Alamos
maybe.”

“It was no military base.” Mitch glanced at
his watch. “We have to go, Don. Thanks for coming out.”

Hayes nodded, threw down the remains of his
whiskey, then noticed neither Mitch nor Christa had touched theirs. “You going
to let those go to waste?”

Mitch smiled, and pushed his toward Hayes. “Be
careful, Don.”

Hayes gave him a wink, then reached for
Mitch’s still full glass of whiskey.

Christa picked up her drink and clicked
glasses with Hayes. “Thank you, Commander.” She threw down the whiskey in one
gulp, and placed the empty glass on the table in front of him with an attitude
indicating she could drink him under the table any time.

He smiled appreciatively, and downed
Mitch’s whiskey. “You’re welcome, Ma’am.”

They left Hayes considering whether or not
to order another whiskey and made their way to the check-in counter. The
airline computer system informed the flight attendant on duty that there were
two prepaid tickets waiting for them. After collecting the tickets, they
hurried toward the departure lounge, expecting to arrive just in time to board.
Rather than joining the end of the boarding line as they had planned, they
discovered passengers sitting with their hand luggage showing no sign of
movement.

Mitch approached the flight attendant by
the aerobridge entrance. “Excuse me, can you tell me when we can board the
plane?”

“There’s a twenty minute delay, sir,” she
replied. “Engine trouble.”

Mitch hid his irritation, guiding Christa
to the side of the departure lounge. “I don’t like this,” he whispered.

“They couldn’t track down those tickets and
get here in twenty minutes,” Christa said uncertainly.

“I’m not so sure of that, but I guess we
can wait twenty minutes.”

They spotted two empty seats in the
departure lounge with a view of the runway. The space next to the aerobridge
was occupied by a passenger jet. Half a dozen ground crew on a vertical lift
platform worked on an engine at a leisurely pace. Mitch glanced at his watch
and began a nerve racking countdown, willing the mechanics to finish what they
were doing. Ten minutes passed and still the mechanics remained gathered around
the engine.

Mitch went over to the flight attendant
again. “Any news of the departure time?”

“Nothing yet, sir. If there is a further delay,
there'll be an announcement.”

“Could you find out please, I’m in kind of
a hurry.”

She smiled politely and picked up the
telephone. “Certainly, sir.” She made a brief enquiry, then hung up. “No change
in our boarding time, sir.”

Mitch returned to his seat beside Christa. On
the tarmac, the elevated platform began to descend away from the engine and the
ground crew dispersed.

“Finally,” Mitch whispered.

As if to allay Mitch’s fears, an
announcement sounded over the public address system informing the waiting
passengers that boarding would commence, and asked first and business class
passengers to board. After what seemed an interminable delay, the rest of the
passengers were asked to board. There was a general surge forward to form a
line, with Mitch and Christa finishing two thirds of the way back. Slowly the
line crawled forward. Mitch looked around restlessly, studying the nearby faces
but not recognizing any of the ex-NSA squad hunting them. He glanced out to the
plane, seeing the mechanics were now gone. Only some ground crew waited to help
guide the jet back from the terminal. Mitch noticed a flashing reflection on
the window’s glass of the arrivals and departures television screens. He turned
curiously to read the message blinking on all four screens:

TELEPHONE CALL FOR JOHN MITCHELL

The words blinked repeatedly, yellow
letters against a red background. Mitch nudged Christa and nodded to the
screen. Surprise showed on her face as she read the message. There were less
than twenty people between them and the flight attendants processing
passengers.

“What do you think?” Christa whispered.

“It’s Mouse. He’s hacked into the terminal's
computer system. Stay with the line, but don’t board without me.” Mitch hurried
across the long terminal walkway to an airport telephone. When a polite voice
answered, Mitch said, “I’m John Mitchell, I believe there is a call for me.”

“One moment, sir,” a man replied, then a
few moments later, “I have no calls waiting for you.”

“My name is flashing on the TV screens
saying there’s a call for me.”

“What TV screens?”

“Arrivals and departures.”

The man’s response was edged with
disbelief. “Those screens are only used by scheduling and security, sir. Telephone
calls are not advertised on them.”

Mitch slammed the phone down, spinning
around to see who was watching while silently cursing himself for being a fool.
It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, answer the phone and give yourself
away. He saw the other TV screens scattered along the walkway weren't flashing
the message, only the screens facing the boarding lounge for his flight. He
waiting, but none of the people hurrying in the terminal paid him any
attention.

“What the hell?” he muttered to himself.

Christa watched him, confused, as her turn
came to board. Mitch motioned for her to wait. He looked up and down the
walkway again, trying to figure what was going on when the airport telephone
started ringing. Mitch snatched it up.

“Yes?”

A man with a familiar central European
accent spoke to him. “Do not board the flight to Los Angeles, Mr Mitchell. They
have traced the tickets Curtis Szilinsky purchased for you.”

“Who is this?”

There was a pause, as the man considered
how he could identify himself. “You may refer to me as EB.”

“How do you know they’ve found us?”

“There are no secrets from me.”

Mitch had no idea who was helping him, but
obviously it was someone on the inside. “Can we meet?”

“No, I cannot leave here.”