Read Online Barracuda 945 by Patrick Robinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patrick Robinson
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than 37,000 cars registered in Crypto City. Its own private Post Office delivers 70,000 pieces of a mail per day. Its annual budget runs into billions of dollars, making it probably the largest municipality in the state of Maryland. Crypto City has never appeared as a city on any map.
The NSA, with seven hundred active armed cops, has a twenty-four-hour command, control, and communications center. Under any kind of threat, it activates immediately a machine-gun-toting Emergency Reaction Team to “battle stations” covering all gates. A million-to-one fluke might allow an intruder inside the compound, but the chances of such a person ever being seen or heard from again are remote.
The Executive Protection Unit mounts a twenty-four-hour armed bodyguard on the NSA’s Director. And up on the eighth floor of the massive one-way glass walls of the OPS-2B Building,Admiral George R. Morris was still at his desk when the Duty Officer from the Military Intelligence Division, Army Captain Scott Wade, nodding cheerfully to the two policemen on duty outside the door, tapped softly and let himself in.
“’Evening, sir,” he said. “We just got a communication in from Langley. About that British SAS Officer gone missing in Israel. I thought you might want to see it right away.”
The two men were very familiar to each other, and the Admiral looked up from his desk. “Hello, Scotty,” he said. “Did they find him?”
“No, sir. No, they did not. And there’s been no hostage demand. They seem to have written that off as a possibility.”
“Hmmmmm,” replied Admiral Morris, reading the Daily Mail ’s account with interest. “They sure as hell didn’t find him. Jesus Christ! The guy’s a Muslim.”
“Well, at least he used to be, sir. I’m not sure about that changing-religions bullshit. I always thought once a Muslim always a Muslim.”
“I guess that was the intention of the Prophet, Scotty,” said the Admiral, smiling. “But lemme ask you something. You spend most of your life looking at situations like this. And I guess we’ve suspected Major Kerman may have gone over to the other side, even if the Brits have confirmed nothing. But have you seen any evidence, or any signs at all, in the hundreds of pages of reports, that Major Kerman has defected to some Islamic Fundamentalist group?”
“Not really, sir. And no one’s ever actually said he did. At least not for sure. It’s only been speculation.”
“Yeah. I know. But just take a look at the treatment this big national newspaper in London has given this story. It’s cross-referenced on the front page, and inside they run this damn great tabloid spread, big headlines, pictures of Ray Kerman at school in Harrow, pictures of his parents, pictures of this Iranian dust hole he was born in. Christ, they got about five guys covering this.
“I’m telling you, Scotty, someone over in England thinks this really matters. Not someone on the newspaper, they’re just guessing, hoping to be right. But someone in Whitehall has alerted them. The Defence Ministry was concerned enough to quietly tip them off.
“Jesus, look at this coverage. There’s a clear implication this Kerman character gunned down two of his colleagues, SAS NCOs. Professionals. That makes him very dangerous indeed.”
“I agree with you, sir. I just wonder what group could have recruited him. I mean, this story implies he was in line possibly to command the entire SAS. Everyone thought so highly of him, and he had no money worries. Looks like his dad was going to give him a dozen oceangoing freighters when he finished with the Army.”
“People do some goddamned weird things, Scotty,” replied the Admiral thoughtfully. “Goddamned weird things.”
George Morris was a deceptive character, a big man, with a kind of lugubrious manner, deliberately slow in his responses, deliberately ponderous in his thinking, but rock steady in his judgments, and wryly amused at his ability to convey the
The NSA, with seven hundred active armed cops, has a twenty-four-hour command, control, and communications center. Under any kind of threat, it activates immediately a machine-gun-toting Emergency Reaction Team to “battle stations” covering all gates. A million-to-one fluke might allow an intruder inside the compound, but the chances of such a person ever being seen or heard from again are remote.
The Executive Protection Unit mounts a twenty-four-hour armed bodyguard on the NSA’s Director. And up on the eighth floor of the massive one-way glass walls of the OPS-2B Building,Admiral George R. Morris was still at his desk when the Duty Officer from the Military Intelligence Division, Army Captain Scott Wade, nodding cheerfully to the two policemen on duty outside the door, tapped softly and let himself in.
“’Evening, sir,” he said. “We just got a communication in from Langley. About that British SAS Officer gone missing in Israel. I thought you might want to see it right away.”
The two men were very familiar to each other, and the Admiral looked up from his desk. “Hello, Scotty,” he said. “Did they find him?”
“No, sir. No, they did not. And there’s been no hostage demand. They seem to have written that off as a possibility.”
“Hmmmmm,” replied Admiral Morris, reading the Daily Mail ’s account with interest. “They sure as hell didn’t find him. Jesus Christ! The guy’s a Muslim.”
“Well, at least he used to be, sir. I’m not sure about that changing-religions bullshit. I always thought once a Muslim always a Muslim.”
“I guess that was the intention of the Prophet, Scotty,” said the Admiral, smiling. “But lemme ask you something. You spend most of your life looking at situations like this. And I guess we’ve suspected Major Kerman may have gone over to the other side, even if the Brits have confirmed nothing. But have you seen any evidence, or any signs at all, in the hundreds of pages of reports, that Major Kerman has defected to some Islamic Fundamentalist group?”
“Not really, sir. And no one’s ever actually said he did. At least not for sure. It’s only been speculation.”
“Yeah. I know. But just take a look at the treatment this big national newspaper in London has given this story. It’s cross-referenced on the front page, and inside they run this damn great tabloid spread, big headlines, pictures of Ray Kerman at school in Harrow, pictures of his parents, pictures of this Iranian dust hole he was born in. Christ, they got about five guys covering this.
“I’m telling you, Scotty, someone over in England thinks this really matters. Not someone on the newspaper, they’re just guessing, hoping to be right. But someone in Whitehall has alerted them. The Defence Ministry was concerned enough to quietly tip them off.
“Jesus, look at this coverage. There’s a clear implication this Kerman character gunned down two of his colleagues, SAS NCOs. Professionals. That makes him very dangerous indeed.”
“I agree with you, sir. I just wonder what group could have recruited him. I mean, this story implies he was in line possibly to command the entire SAS. Everyone thought so highly of him, and he had no money worries. Looks like his dad was going to give him a dozen oceangoing freighters when he finished with the Army.”
“People do some goddamned weird things, Scotty,” replied the Admiral thoughtfully. “Goddamned weird things.”
George Morris was a deceptive character, a big man, with a kind of lugubrious manner, deliberately slow in his responses, deliberately ponderous in his thinking, but rock steady in his judgments, and wryly amused at his ability to convey the
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