Chapter Thirty-three

It was a warm, humid Saturday morning in Pensacola. Lt. Commander Keith Arnsbarger was in his backyard, hitting grounders to his girlfriend’s eleven-year-old, when the Naval intelligence officer arrived and Cissy brought him out back. Arnsbarger hit the Little Leaguer one last big hopper, mussed his hair, and tossed him clothes and all into the pool.

Cissy was howling, and the kid was laughing like hell as Arnsbarger and the officer moved off toward an orchard of fruit trees. The brush-cut courier informed Arnsbarger he’d been dispatched to take him to a meeting with the director of Central Intelligence, who was arriving in Pensacola within the hour.

“Can’t make it,” Arnsbarger cracked. “The President’s on his way over to shag some flies. Baseball’s his sport,” he went on, assuming Lowell or another of his buddies was playing a joke.

Lowell was jogging on Coastline Drive, and well into the ten miles he ran every day when the officer dispatched with his orders caught up with him. The lanky Californian thought maybe he had overdosed on beta endorphins, and was as incredulous as Arnsbarger.

“Will you repeat that, please?” he asked. “You caught me in the middle of a runner’s high.”

He hadn’t expected any feedback to his response to the KIQ directive, let alone one as direct as a meeting with the DCI himself. It had been barely eight hours since the data had been transmitted to the NRO in the Pentagon. Lowell couldn’t imagine what, but he had no doubt something extraordinary was in the works.

The previous afternoon, during the short ride from the White House to his office, DCI Jake Boulton came up with a scenario to accomplish on-board inspection of the Kira. He met with agency strategists at Langley and ascertained from the ASW data on hand that if the Kira adhered to schedule, she would be leaving Havana in six days for Gulf oil fields to take on cargo. Details of his plan were solidified during the night. And the next morning, Boulton—who still held the rank of Rear Admiral, and never missed a chance to get back into a flight harness—departed for Pensacola in the pilot’s seat of a Navy F-14 Tomcat.

Now Lowell and Arnsbarger paced anxiously in “The Tank,” a secure conference room in K building’s TSZ, waiting for Boulton. They snapped to when he, and the aide who had been at the meeting with the President, were shown in by the ranking naval intelligence officer. The same one who had transmitted the KIQ response.

The DCI was a commanding presence in a flight suit. “As you were, gentlemen,” he said smartly. “Sacrifice of free time appreciated.”

He glanced sideways to the intelligence officer.

“Carry on, colonel,” Boulton said, dismissing him. “I’ll reestablish contact before departure.”

The colonel had expected to be included in the meeting. The thought of having appeared presumptuous in front of the DCI unsettled him. He banged his knee on a chair, making a less than graceful exit.

Boulton didn’t react.

Arnsbarger and Lowell surpressed smiles.

“Take seats,” the DCI said. He went on to brief them on his meeting with the President; specifically, the need for immediate visual inspection of the Kira to ascertain the existence of a compartment carved out of her hold, and its contents—or lack thereof.

“Mission objective—satisfy Commander in Chief’s primary KIQ,” he concluded. “Supersecret classification dictates four criteria. One—highly unorthodox scenario. Two—minimum personnel exposure, which means inclusion on need-to-know basis only. Colonel will be briefed eventually to handle ASW liaison during execution. Three—zero equipment profile.”

“In other words, we’re talking hardware that’s compatible with operational climate,” Arnsbarger said, sensing where the DCI was headed.

“Affirmative,” Boulton said. “Enemy vessels expect Viking S-3A overflights. No stigma attached. Four—the import of one through three. ASW data initiators become optimum mission candidates.”

“We’re honored, sir,” Lowell said smartly.

“Seconded, sir,” Arnsbarger said. “We can have our bird on the flight line by—”

“Negative, Captain,” Boulton interrupted. “Mission hardware will be supplied.”

“Perhaps, I misunderstood, sir,” Arnsbarger said. “I thought the Viking was the key to creating the appearance of routine, details not withstanding.”

“Affirmative, Captain,” the DCI replied. “Bird supplied will be a Viking S-3A envelope—minus TACCO and classified airborne navigational equipment.”

“Gutted,” Lowell said.

“Gutted,” Boulton echoed. “Operational climate is high risk. Lead time, minimum. Support negligible. Acknowledgment upon completion unlikely. Logic will become manifest upon briefing. Briefing contingent upon—confirmation of enlistment by personnel.”

Boulton had just given them a chance to change their minds. He leveled a look at Lowell, then flicked his eyes to Arnsbarger.

“Enlistment confirmed, sir,” Lowell said evenly.

Arnsbarger nodded crisply. “Count me in.”

Boulton smiled and nodded to his aide, who stepped forward with briefing materials.

“For openers, gentlemen,” the aide began, “you’ll be taking several refresher courses designed to polish and tune skills essential to the success of this mission—you’ll start with jump school.”

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