Code Name Antares

Chapter 4

The temperature hovered just above forty-one degrees, as familiar March winds blew across Virginia and D.C. at thirteen knots, gusting to twenty. As usual, traffic along N. Mead Street was still heavy, but most occupants inside cars hardly took notice of the Memorial.

A door to the Chevy SUV closed. Grant screwed down his baseball cap, and zipped up his black windbreaker. Shoving his hands into the pockets, he started pacing back and forth along the lighted walkway behind the SUV. The call had come in on the special phone earlier in the day. No specifics had been given, only that he and Adler were to be at the Memorial by 2000 hours. More than one possibility ran through his mind.

Adler sat in the rear passenger seat, drinking a last mouthful of warm black coffee. He crushed the empty paper cup then stuck it in the door pocket. “There’s more coffee in the thermos, Ken, Mike, and a couple bologna sandwiches in the bag.”

“Thanks, LT,” Ken Slade responded.

Sipping on his coffee, Novak looked in the rearview mirror watching Grant pace. Slade kept an eye out for any approaching vehicles.

Adler zipped up his old Navy khaki jacket before opening the door. He caught up to Grant. “Well, Skipper, has that brain of yours come up with any reasonable explanation why we’ve been ‘invited’ here?”

Grant stopped then leaned against the tailgate, and shook his head. “I can come up with plenty, Joe, but … ”

“Boss,” Slade interrupted, as he poked his head out the window. “There’s a car comin’.”

Grant and Adler walked along the side of the SUV, seeing headlights swing around the curve, lighting up them and the SUV.

The tan, 1978 Dodge Aspen was an unmarked vehicle previously owned by the Maryland State Police. The driver pulled into a parking space and shifted into “Park.” He switched on an overhead light, then made a notation on a clipboard. Laying the clipboard on the seat, he got out and walked to the Chevy.

He approached Grant and Adler. “Captain Stevens?” he asked with his eyes going from one to the other.

“I’m Grant Stevens,” Grant responded, extending a hand.

“I’m Staff Sergeant Stu Reilly, sir, your driver for the evening.” Reilly returned Grant’s handshake. Even though he was active duty, as a member of the White House motor pool, and on standby twenty-four/seven, Reilly wore civilian clothes. He was about 5’8”, with a slim build, and short, thick brown hair.

He turned to Adler. “Lieutenant Adler?”

“That’s me,” Adler nodded, offering his hand.

“It’s routine for me to ask for your IDs, sirs.”

Both Grant and Adler took out their wallets, then flipped them open. Grant noticed the staff sergeant had a weapon in a side holster. He and Adler left their .45s in the SUV.

Reilly took each wallet, and shined the light from a small flashlight on each State Department and retired military ID. “All right, sirs. It looks like we’re ready for departure.” He opened the rear passenger door. Adler slid in.

“Would you mind if I rode up front?” Grant asked.

“Not at all, sir.” He opened the front door.

“Wait one,” Grant said, as he turned around. “Mike, Ken, head back to Eagle 8. Contact the rest of the team and put them on standby as a ‘just in case.’ Matt should be on his way back from California. Make sure you contact him. I’ll call you when we’re ready for retrieval, which I assume will be somewhere in D.C.”

“Roger that, boss,” Novak responded, before starting the engine.

Grant got in the Dodge. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Reilly unhooked a mike from the Motorola Micor Radio attached under the dash. In the trunk was a multi-band transmitter, with two whip antennas attached outside.

“Reilly calling guard house. Over.”

“Go ahead. Over.”

“Departing with two guests. ETA ninety-minutes. Out.”

Traffic leaving D.C. was still heavy. Oncoming headlights remained constant, while in front of the Dodge, red taillights became a blur. Once Reilly turned on Highway 270, traffic thinned. He pressed the accelerator and picked up speed, but was mindful of staying within the posted speed limit.

The three men kept up a steady conversation, talking military most of the time. Grant noticed that not once did Reilly take his eyes from the road, except to glance in the rear- and side view mirrors, nor did he question the purpose of this evening’s trip.

“Excuse me a minute, sirs.” He reached for the mike again, reporting ETA in forty-five minutes. He’d make the same call three more times.

Thirty-five minutes later, they were on Park Central Road, a dark, winding blacktop, leading deeper into Catoctin Mountain Park. Posted at the entrance was a sign: Closed December — March. Official Vehicles Only.

With high beams lighting the way, the vehicle eventually turned right onto an unmarked road. Signs warned they were entering a U.S. military installation with restricted access.

Turning off the high beams, Reilly left parking lights on and slowed down. Bright overhead spotlights provided enough light at the guard house, where two Marines waited at the entrance, with one stationed at the exit. All had rifle straps slung over their shoulders, and weapons in side holsters.

Two guards stepped closer as Reilly rolled down his window. He was a familiar figure, having made this same trip many times over the past six months.

Grant and Adler handed over their IDs. The Marine leaned toward the open windows, comparing the two faces to the IDs. As he did, the second guard casually walked around the vehicle looking in windows. The inspection was made only in a cursory manner, since all details had been delivered earlier in the day. The guards knew who and how many to expect.

Returning the IDs, the guard gave a quick salute, then waved them through.

No more than fifty yards past the guardhouse was a perimeter road that circled the entire property, with a chain link fence outside it. Just beyond was a sign: Camp David.