Unknown Rider

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.

“Zilch,” he muttered.

Even more than the electro-optical and infrared sensor pod, the Stingray would make or break this surveillance. Designed to simulate a cell tower, it tricked targeted phones into connecting to it, then collected their GPS location, call history, and text messages. Assuming Delta One was correct and the spy was on one of those boats beneath him, all TANDY needed to do was turn his cell phone on, and it would automatically connect to the Stingray and provide all the information they needed to take him out. Game over.

“Come to papa,” he said.

7

USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN-72)

Adam sat at his desk in the corner of maintenance control near Ready Room Four, doing his best to ignore Sergeant Narvaez explaining to Gunny why his “hunt and peck” method of typing would stunt his career growth. Time at sea wasn’t measured by weeks or days or even hours, but by the sheer volume of meaningless and asinine conversations one engaged in to pass the time. But this was Adam’s first real experience with being underway, and he found the discussions between the two staff noncommissioned officers to be both dull and unworthy of his attention. As such, he wasn’t paying attention when a third voice interrupted their discussion.

“Gunny, what did you find with three oh seven?”

He might not have been listening, but Adam’s heart rate spiked when he heard the tail number of the jet that was supposed to have crashed. He stopped scanning the batch of files he’d been reviewing and looked over his shoulder to see the skipper standing at the counter next to a stern-faced CAG. They made eye contact, and Adam swallowed.