Thorpe's Candle

BELTWAY AMBUSH

The British Airways 777 touched down at Dulles twenty-six miles west of Washington. It was two minutes past midnight. Watching the runway lights race by, Skyler mulled over the details of the explosion in the sky over Hawaii. A phone call from Heathrow to Gates had confirmed the detonation of an unknown device in the outer fringes of the atmosphere. Gates also relayed an urgent message from a Colonel Michael Argentine summoning them both to Washington. There was no doubt about it now, Skyler realized — someone had constructed Thorpe's Candle.

Gates had verified through his government sources that a submarine missile launch took place. Bets were it was from the pirate sub Skyler had seen running alongside the Aztec Princess. Skyler and Gates debated if it was a show of force, an attack that went south, or some kind of accident. Had someone already found the lost shipment of korium in Greenland and started producing Candles?

A chime brought Skyler out of deep thought — it sounded when the captain turned off the “fasten seat belts sign” as the plane parked at the terminal. Skyler pulled his carryall from the overhead bin and followed the slow procession of passengers up the entrance tunnel. When he emerged into the gate area, two men wearing dark suits and serious expressions approached. The first was a bull of a man well over six and a half feet tall with thick hands and a shaved head. The second was about Skyler's height, slim with a round face, short hair, and a thin mustache.

“Mr. Skyler,” the first man said. “Special Agent Daniel Tyson, FBI.” He extended his credentials for Skyler to examine. “This is Agent Knowles. We're here to escort you to your destination.”

“Which is?” Skyler asked.

Tyson motioned. “This way please.”

The trio moved away from the gate area to U.S. Customs and Immigration. At the inspection point, Tyson showed his credentials and Skyler was ushered through the gates into baggage claim. He had not checked any bags so the three men were able to walk out to the street where a Ford Explorer waited at curbside. An airport security officer stood guard.

Skyler sat in the back, the two agents up front. They pulled away from the curb, heading east toward the Capital Beltway. “Where are we going?” Skyler asked after a few minutes of silence.

Agent Knowles glanced at Skyler from the rear view mirror as he guided the Explorer south among the sparse Interstate traffic toward Arlington Boulevard. “Important people want the pleasure of your company, Mr. Skyler.”

“Can you tell me if Mickey Gates has arrived yet?”

“I believe he is still in route,” Tyson said as the sleepy communities and empty mall parking lots glided by.

Fatigued, and in need of a shower and change of clothes, Skyler started to lose patience. He was about to say so when he realized Knowles was watching the rear view mirror more than the highway ahead. “Is there something wrong?”

Knowles motioned with his head and Tyson turned, staring into the glare of the headlights behind them.

“Probably nothing,” Tyson said.

“They've been with us since we left Dulles,” Knowles said. “I think we've got uninvited guests.”

“Speed up,” Tyson said. “Let's see what they do.”

Skyler stole a glance over his shoulder and saw a set of headlights pacing the Explorer about five car lengths back.

Tyson pulled a cellular phone from his pocket. “We're on the Capital Beltway heading south near exit 11. Looks like we've picked up a tail.” He listened for a moment then disconnected. “Virginia State police are on the way.” Just as he nodded to Knowles the back window shattered.

The Explorer swerved, the tires squealed, and Skyler was thrown forward. His head banged against the back of the seat. As he pulled himself up, Knowles yelled, “Dan's hit.”

Dazed, Skyler looked over the seat and strained to focus on the slumped-over body of Agent Tyson. Blood flowed from wounds on the back of his head and neck. Skyler located the man's weapon — a Browning 9mm automatic. He pulled back the bolt as a second burst of gunfire slammed into the trunk and fender of the Explorer.

“Get us out of here!” Skyler yelled and aimed over the back seat. He fired three shots at the headlights. The chase vehicle swerved, momentarily losing speed.

The Explorer roared as Knowles floored the accelerator, making large evasive sweeps back and forth across the three lanes of the Interstate. Skyler looked at the glow of the dashboard — the speedometer pointed at one hundred.

A third barrage of bullets tore into the Explorer, this time turning the shatterproof windshield into a mass of spider-webbed cracks. Large chunks of glass separated allowing the one hundred mile-per-hour wind to blast into the car. Knowles screamed, trying to cover his face as tiny pieces of glass peppered him. The Explorer careened across the highway. It skidded over the shoulder, down an embankment and into a stand of small evergreens lining the road. The car crashed into a fence and spun around facing the opposite direction. It dug a path through the dirt and trees. The sound of breaking wood and scraping metal assaulted Skyler's ears.

No sooner had the Explorer come to rest than he heard the screech of brakes — the pursuers stopping beside the highway a hundred feet away. Skyler scrambled out through the back window and tumbled to the ground.

Knowles was slumped over the front seat, moaning.

“Hang on, buddy,” Skyler said as he gripped the passenger's door. Jammed! He put his foot on the side of the car and pulled the handle. With a groan, the door gave way. He dragged Tyson and Agent Knowles out of the car onto the ground. Then he turned his attention back to the highway.

There was a plain white panel van silhouetted in the lights of the Interstate. Two figures moved down the crest of the embankment. Skyler saw the glint of light reflecting on their guns. He took aim and fired. The two men opened fire and raked the Explorer with automatic spray.

Skyler waited behind the fender until the barrage stopped for an instant. Then he rose, took quick aim and fired again. Both men retreated at the sound of an approaching siren. The van shot onto the Beltway leaving a spray of gravel and dirt behind. Skyler turned his attention to the two agents. Tyson was lifeless but Knowles groaned with pain. Brakes squealed from the direction of the highway and the LEDs of the trooper's car washed the surroundings with alternating red and blue. Skyler heard the metallic voices from the police radio as the trooper moved down the embankment, a gun aimed at the demolished Ford Explorer.

“Let me see your hands!” the trooper yelled and worked his way around the back of the agent's car.

A wail of sirens filled the air as Skyler felt blood flowing down his own face — the sting from glass fragments in his scalp swept over him like a swarm of bees. Dizzy and weak, he dropped the Browning and raised his hands.

“Don’t shoot,” he managed to mumble as he looked into the barrel of the trooper’s automatic.

OVAL OFFICE

A female intern at the George Washington University Hospital emergency room cleaned and stitched the lacerations on Skyler’s head. One was at the edge of his hairline and two on his scalp. A fourth across his left arm had been swabbed and butterflied. Skyler watched the steady parade of victims, the result he was told by the intern, of random shootings, car crashes, house fires, drug overdoses, rapes, and muggings. An army of medical emergency and trauma specialists attended to all — a typical Saturday night in the inner city.

While the intern worked on him, Skyler was surrounded by law enforcement officers — D.C. detectives and city police, FBI agents, ATF agents, State Police, and a number of men in suits who never bothered to identify their organizations.

He had learned soon after arriving by ambulance that Agent Daniel Tyson had died at the scene. Agent Knowles was in emergency surgery — he had lost his left eye but was expected to recover. The white van had somehow eluded police and disappeared into the Virginia suburbs.

“That should do,” the doctor said and snipped the last of the sutures.

“Thanks.” Skyler looked down at his dirty, bloodstained clothes. “Wouldn't happen to have a spare outfit I could borrow?”

“Only if you love pale green and don't mind a breeze from the rear.” With a weary expression, she moved to a patient in the next partition.

“Mr. Skyler, I’m Colonel Michael Argentine.”

Skyler looked up. “Hello, Colonel. Friendly town you got here.”

They shook hands. “We usually don't start shooting visitors until they're inside the Beltway. But for important people like you, we make exceptions.”

“Don't do me any favors.” Skyler strained a smile. “Any idea who they were?”

“A few theories, probably the same as yours.”

“I'll lay odds it was some friends of mine from south of the border.”

“Sounds like a sure bet. I didn't realize until a few days ago that it was you who filed the report with the Mexican authorities about the submarine sighting.” He lowered his voice. “You've had a first-hand look at Escandoza's latest smuggling techniques and his sub. If I were him, I wouldn't want you around either. He's obviously not as good as he thinks. You're still with us.”

“Only means he'll try harder next time.”

Over the clamor of the emergency room came a deep booming voice. “Sky, I can't leave you alone for one moment without you getting into trouble.”

Skyler and Argentine turned to see Mickey Gates push his way through the crowd. A detective held out an arm to stop the burly military salvage expert, but Argentine said, “He's cleared,” and motioned Gates through.

Gates leaned in to take a closer look at the shaved portions of Skyler's head and the stitches. Then he extended his hand to the Colonel. “So you must be our mystery date.”

“Afraid so,” Argentine said, and they shook hands.

“Well, Colonel,” Skyler said, “you called this meeting. Now how about some answers.”

“Gentlemen, all your answers will come soon. First we need to take a ride.”

“That’s how my troubles started in the first place.” Skyler eased off the examination table.

“This time, we're going to give you a little more protection.” A contingency of law enforcement officers surrounded Skyler, Gates and Argentine, and moved them out the emergency exit to a line of waiting police cars and motorcycles.

“If this is the treatment we get,” Gates said as they approached a black Chevrolet Suburban with dark tinted windows, “I'd like to see what you guys do for the President.”

“The President doesn't make a lot of visits to the GWTC emergency room.” Argentine held the door open for the two men.

After leaving the underground entrance, the entourage split into three groups. A few moments later, there were only the Suburban and two black & whites, one leading and one following. They moved through the downtown streets of the nation's capital with ease, the lead car remotely triggering the traffic lights to green in time for the caravan to pass through the intersections.

Changing into fresh clothes from his recovered carryall, Skyler watched as they weaved in and out of the light, 4:00 a.m. traffic. He soon saw familiar landmarks — the Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the White House. Within seconds they were cleared through the Northwest Gate. Before Skyler could take in the immense grandeur of his surroundings, he and Gates along with Argentine were ushered into the building and down a series of hallways, and finally into the Oval Office.

Three men sat on the couches positioned on the carpet that bore the crest of the President of the United States. Skyler recognized Alan Grant, Director of the CIA, Dean Clancy, National Security Adviser, and Thomas Lancaster, Secretary of the Navy.

“Come in, gentlemen,” Dean Clancy said. “Please be seated. Can we get you something to drink?”

“Diet Coke,” Argentine said.

“Coffee, black,” Skyler requested.

“A beer, if you got one.” Gates took a seat at the end of one couch, leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I'm sure we can find you a beer, Mr. Gates.” Clancy shot him a condescending smile. “Please, Mr. Skyler, make yourself at home. You too, Colonel.”

Skyler sat beside Gates while Argentine took a vacant spot on a couch across from the two.

“We're waiting for a few late arrivals,” Clancy said, “then we can get started.”

Just then the door opened. Everyone including Skyler and Gates turned and stood as the President entered the room. Two other men followed him.

“Sorry I'm late.” The President approached with his hand extended. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice. I'd like you to meet Dr. John Dolen, Managing Director of Deep Scan, and Professor Carl Reynolds, his associate and Deep Scan's Chief of Vital Research.”

Skyler and Gates greeted the two scientists while the rest of the group took their seats. The President nodded to the other men before taking his place at his desk. “Well,” he said, stretching his arms and interlacing his fingers, “we have a big problem on our hands.” He looked at CIA Director Grant. “Alan.”

Grant opened a file on the table, taking one quick glance around the room at each individual. “The missile was a Soviet-built SS-N-17, launched from a submarine approximately eight hundred miles west of Cedros Island, off the Mexican coast. Immediately after launching her bird, the sub turned south and disappeared. The missile ran its full range of three thousand nine hundred kilometers skipping across the outer atmosphere, detonating four hundred eighty-two kilometers or three hundred miles above the big island of Hawaii.”

“Was this some kind of an attack?” the President asked.

“We don't think so,” Grant said. “There was never any telemetry that would suggest an attempt at re-entry.”

“What about any damage to the atmosphere?”

“So far, Mr. President, our sensors indicate minimal disturbances,” Grand answered.

“So it was an accident?” Clancy asked.

“Again, probably not,” Grant said. “The sub's maneuvers were calculated. We believe this was a deliberate missile launch and detonation. And we think it was intended as a show of force, either to impress us and our allies, or someone else.”

“Who might that be, Dean?”

“Based on additional information, Mr. President, from our British colleagues and their operative in North Korea, we think it might be potential customers for the Candles.”

“You mean terrorist organizations,” Skyler said as the drinks were served.

“Exactly, Mr. Skyler,” Grant said. “Anyone looking to jump into the major league weapons business.”

“This looks like a sales demonstration to me,” Skyler added. “Escandoza must be bored with selling cocaine. Weapons of mass destruction are more glamorous.”

Grant said, “I agree. He's formed a partnership with the Koreans to produce and sell korium devices. Because of the loss of the Cuban korium shipment, we think his potential customers were getting cold feet.”

“They needed some hand holding,” Gates added and sipped his beer. “So they popped off a Candle to assure everyone the merchandise is for real.”

“Right, Mr. Gates,” Grant said. “We also believe Escandoza is going to attempt to assemble the weapons at a new location somewhere in Colombia. We've tracked a number of suspicious transport planes leapfrogging across the Pacific from Pyongyang to Bogota for the past three days.”

“Who's operating that sub, Alan?” the President said.

“The man in charge is ex-Soviet naval officer, Colonel Felix Blackstone. After the fall of the Soviet Union, he became a commando in the elite Black Knights of the Belgium Army. He served three years in a military prison for attempted rape. A year after his release, he surfaced as a major player in the Eastern European black market. He progressed into selling weapons, became a mercenary and finally graduated summa cum terrorist. Spent time in Italy working for the Red Brigade, and from there he moved on to Colombia to become Escandoza's right arm. He's carried out a number of assassinations for the drug lord and has vowed never to be taken alive. There's no telling how many men Blackstone has killed. In summary, gentlemen, he is to be considered extremely dangerous and unpredictable.”

“How does a man like Blackstone put together a crew for a nuclear submarine?” the President asked.

“Easier than you might think, sir,” Grand said. “The Russian Navy suffered severely for years after the collapse of the Soviet Union — insufficient maintenance, lack of funding and subsequent effects on the training of personnel, and replacement of outdated equipment. Another setback is because of Russia's domestic shipbuilding industry which has been in decline. There are scores of sailors that served as submariners. Now they can’t get a job for which they were trained. All Blackstone needs is one hundred and twenty to man a Yankee-class boomer. My guess is he has an abundance of recruits lining up to come on board for the right price.”

The President was silent for a moment, appearing to be deep in thought. Then he turned to the National Security Adviser. “Recommendations, Dean?”

“Mr. President, our actions to stop this madness must be swift and severe. Our first goal is to locate and capture or destroy that pirate sub. We need to have the Navy concentrate all its resources in the Pacific where the sub is projected to be heading.”

The President turned to Thomas Lancaster. “You have my authority to use deadly force if necessary. Is that understood?”

The Secretary of the Navy nodded.

Dean Clancy asked, “Alan, any progress on your satellite surveillance search for Escandoza's headquarters?”

“Based on activity over the last few days, we have what we feel are a half-dozen possible sites,” Grant said. “An Army Ranger rapid response team is rehearsing in the mountains outside El Centro, California, right now for an assault once we confirm the location.”

“Excellent,” Clancy said. Then he turned to Skyler. “We also need your help, Mr. Skyler. It is essential that we locate and recover what we think is the only known supply of korium left in the world — the Arctic Air shipment lost in Greenland — and we have to do it before Escandoza gets there. I believe you were investigating its whereabouts while you were in London?”

Skyler nodded.

“As I'm sure you're aware,” Clancy continued, “this country is under extreme budget restraints resulting in major cutbacks in our military. We do not have the resources to conduct scientific and research missions. Furthermore, we’re required by law to utilize the private sector for any endeavors of this type.”

“To make matters worse,” the President said, “Greenland is an autonomous territory under the protection of the Kingdom of Denmark.”

“I guess they still haven’t gotten over the Air Force managing to accidentally drop that cruise missile into downtown Copenhagen,” Mickey Gates said.

“Or crashing a B-1b a week later into the Central Government complex in Godthab,” Skyler added.

“Exactly,” the President said.

“We don’t have the time to go through all the proper diplomatic channels and get the appropriate permissions,” Clancy said.

“And that’s assuming that Denmark or Greenland would agree to any kind of military intrusion of their respective sovereignty or interests,” the President added.

“That's why we've brought you and Mr. Gates here,” Clancy said. “We need a well-respected salvage organization like OceanQuest to put together the expedition to Greenland. Working in the background with a number of research groups and universities, we can help push through the appropriate paperwork and get your clearances. In addition, we can supply you critical intelligence support needed to locate and recover the korium shipment.”

“But we can’t send in the troops,” the President said. “To do so would take months of diplomatic wrangling — time we just don’t have. Can you do it?”

Skyler said, “Our research ship, Phoenix, is currently taking on supplies at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution on Cape Cod. She was scheduled to begin a search for a Civil War ironclad off the Virginia coast. We can have her and an expedition team ready and assembled in five days.” He looked at Gates.

“That’s really pushing it, Sky.”

“We’ll make it happen, Mr. President,” Skyler said.

“Good.” The President turned to Dr. John Dolen. “Any progress on how the national security files were compromised?”

“Yes, sir,” Dolen said, his eyes magnified through the thick lenses of his glasses.

“And we know who did it,” Professor Reynolds added, his chubby fingers pulling at the ends of his bushy mustache. “Working with specialists from the FBI, we cross-checked the age of all passwords used in the last twelve months — one had not been used in two decades but had somehow been protected from deletion after the normal dormant usage period. It belonged to Dr. William Thorpe. Thorpe got in and stole the files. Interestingly enough, at the time he did it, there was a major system crash. Part of one of the files he was reading — what became a lost cluster — was thrown across the server's hard drive. Thorpe got back in, finishing his download but he had no way of knowing about the lost cluster. That's the one we found when we discovered Project Candle Power.”

“So,” the President stated, “Dr. Thorpe is alive and well and working for Escandoza.”

Dolen added, “Yes, sir. But it gets worse. We now know he’s been in and out of the system many times over the years and we assume he knows about Deep Scan. Until the FBI started investigating and plugged the hole, Thorpe had a wide-open back door to our files. It had to have been him that alerted Escandoza and subsequently the Cubans to Captain Harper and the Rangers.”

“Looks like you can add treason to the list of charges when you catch him,” Skyler said.

“You can count on it, Mr. Skyler. And now, gentlemen, let's waste no more time here. I wish you all good luck.” As he rose, the President said, “Mr. Skyler, we're counting on you to find that plane and the lost shipment of korium.”

“Oh, we'll find it, sir.” Skyler’s expression was stern. “But Escandoza is a determined man. If he gets there first, all that may be left is an empty hole in the ice.”