Chapter 17

	The morning after his return from San Francisco, HYDRA took a taxicab to 53d 
Street in midtown Manhattan, giving the driver an address not far from the tailor, David 
Blond.  Before leaving his apartment, HYDRA had telephoned ahead, so the tailor was 
expecting him and immediately ushered HYDRA to his private office upon his arrival, 
after hanging a closed sign on his door. 
	When Blond turned around, HYDRA realized the tailor was wearing a pair of thin, 
transparent rubber gloves.  He opened a large armoire, pulled out a long plastic bag, set it 
on a work table in front, and unceremoniously unzipped it, while HYDRA took off his 
sport coat. 
	"If you wish, we can try on the flight suit first," Blond suggested, awaiting 
HYDRA's approval. 
	"Fine." 
	Blond handed HYDRA a pilot's coverall, directed him to a changing booth and 
waited, hoping everything would meet his mysterious client's specifications.  When 
HYDRA stepped out of the booth, Blond's only worry was that the normally loose-fitting 
flight suit would look too tailored on his physique, since HYDRA was in such good 
physical condition. 
	HYDRA stood before the mirror, admiring the tailor's work.  Blond had cut 
everything exactly as the diagram indicated, including the pair of four-color unit patches 
on the right and left breasts and the tricolored American flag patch bordered in yellow on 
the left shoulder.  HYDRA tried each of the diagonal zippered pockets which were placed 
asymmetrically below the breast patches, then the others on the midsection, thigh, and 
below the knee. 
	"It's not too tight in the shoulders?" Blond asked.
	HYDRA stretched out both arms like a scarecrow. 
	"No." 
	"Good."  Blond flipped the lid off a cardboard shirt box, extracting two folded 
canvas bags--one olive drab and the size of a briefcase with cloth handles, the other, a 
dark blue, the size of a camera bag with longer straps. 
	"These are regulation pilot's carryalls," Blond explained, snapping open first one 
bag then the other and handing them to HYDRA.  "I thought you might like them." 
	"Excellent," HYDRA mused aloud.  "I'd forgotten all about -- " 
	"Now we should try on the shoes," the tailor interrupted,  relieved now that his 
customer seemed satisfied with his initial work.  Blond tore open a second box, pulling 
out a pair of all black, lace-up, rubber-soled regulation boots. "You want to try them on?" 
	HYDRA kicked off his calf-skin slipons.  Blond held each boot as HYDRA stuck 
in his foot, then laced them up. 
	"Go ahead, walk around in them." 
	HYDRA did as he was told, amazed at how light each boot felt, even though it was 
a perfect replica of the Navy model. 
	"Special plastic," Blond smiled, "completely waterproof.  It won't get heavier even 
if it's submerged for hours." 
	"Perfect." 
	Blond turned to the open plastic bag, carefully extracting a matching walking-out 
blue uniform and shirt on a hanger for a reserve naval officer traveling in the winter.  
HYDRA grabbed the hanger, returned with it to the changing booth, stripped off the 
pilot's coverall and slipped on the uniform and shirt.  Looking at it first in the mirror in 
the booth, he had already decided it was a perfect fit, when he showed it to Blond. 
	"How is it?" 
	"Good, good," HYDRA murmured. 
	"Not too tight in the crotch?" 
	"No, not at all." 
	"How about the sleeve length?" 
	HYDRA shot his sleeves, then looked back at Blond and nodded. 
	"Cuff length?" 
	"Fine." 
	The plastic ID tag on his left breast read, Lt. Jack Gereke. 
	"Are you ready to try on Sergeant Koester's then?" Blond asked, pleased with 
himself. 
	"Yes." 
	Blond pulled a second long zippered plastic bag from his closet and set it, too, on 
the work table, slowly opening it, He handed it to HYDRA, who held it up in front of 
him, examining its detail. Then he produced a second coverall, similar in shape to the one 
he had designed for the pilot, Gereke. 
	This time there were no dramatic four-color unit patches over the breasts and 
American flag patch on the left shoulder,  but only a plastic ID tag, which read Sgt. Peter 
Koester. 
	HYDRA took the garment and returned to the changing room, where he stripped 
off Gereke's coveralls, then donned Koester's, stepping outside for Blond to have a look. 
	"As you can see, it's the same size as Gereke's, just a different design, that's all."  
	HYDRA's eyes were immediately drawn to the pair of slim copper-colored felt 
bars sewn on the top of each collar -- this was the NIS Technical Services classified ID 
patch for work in top-secret military installations. 
	He also noticed the zippers on the pockets ran horizontally instead of diagonally as 
before, and that the breast pockets themselves were symmetrical instead of asymmetrical.  
Also, the color of Koester's maintenance uniform was a dark navy, whereas Gereke's had 
been olive drab. 
	"Same fit in the shoulders?" Blond asked. 
	HYDRA stretched out his arms again. "Fine." 
	Blond knelt to the floor, looking at HYDRA's shoes. 
	"Cuff length looks the same," murmured the tailor to himself, then stood up. "You 
can use the shoes for both, if that's all right.  There's no specific regulation requirement 
for NIS." 
	"Good," replied HYDRA, thinking it would be easier to wear in only a single pair 
of boots. 
	"Let's try the parka next." 
	Blond handed HYDRA the hooded parka he'd brought with him on his first visit, 
and HYDRA held it in his outstretched hand, checking the garment's increase in weight. 
Satisfied, he put it on over Koester's uniform and looked at himself in the mirror. 
	Perfect. 
	"Well, I think that's it, then." 
	HYDRA nodded, handed the parka back to Blond, and returned to the changing 
room, where he stripped off the custom boots and Koester's overalls, then redressed in the 
pants and sport coat he'd worn into the shop.  He handed the pair of coveralls and boots to 
Blond, who, still wearing his rubber gloves, hung the uniforms back in the plastic bags 
and repackaged the boots in their box. 
	"I believe you owe me eleven thousand dollars," Blond stated flatly, stacking the 
bags and the parka on the table. 
	The hint of a smile passed across HYDRA's face. He reached inside his jacket 
pocket, fished out an envelope of moderate thickness, and set it on the table. 
	"One hundred and ten one hundred dollar bills.  You can count them if you want." 
	"I don't think that will be necessary in this case," Blond replied, handing HYDRA 
the pair of plastic bags and then the shoe box. 
	HYDRA carried the packages through the stacks, flipped over the open-closed 
sign, unlatched the door and stepped out into the cool spring air. He walked several 
blocks before hailing a taxi, telling the driver to drop him off at 62nd Street and Madison. 



Chapter 18 

	Satisfied with Blond's work, HYDRA hung the plastic bags in his closet, then 
walked to lunch at a neighborhood French bistro.  After consuming a fresh lamb chop and 
washing it down with a glass of Vouvray, he took a taxi to 93rd Street and had the driver 
let him off at Third Avenue.  Like the first time, he walked the rest of the distance, until 
he stopped under the Military Bookworm's battered sign.  This time the proprietor saw 
him from behind his desk and immediately activated the solenoid switch which worked 
the lock.  Before HYDRA could enter, a heavy-set Latino with a pockmarked face shoved 
past him, almost knocking him over, before disappearing into a waiting Lincoln Mark IV. 
	In his wake, the Colombian had dislodged volume six of Die Heere und Flotten 
der Gegenwart, part of a monumental series edited by Major General Graf von Zeppelin 
himself, which HYDRA picked up off the floor and handed to the thin proprietor with the 
large moustache. 
	"Sorry about him -- but he had to catch the next plane to Cali -- some problem, I 
guess.  You want to come in back?" 
	HYDRA nodded affirmatively and the owner flipped the Open-Closed sign just as 
he had before, then ushered HYDRA through a row of shelves into an office filled with 
cardboard boxes in various stages of unpacking, stacked in no apparent order. 
	"Excuse the mess," sighed the proprietor.  Then, pointing at an oblong wooden 
crate whose top lay on the floor next to a crowbar.  "Description de l'Egypte, ever heard 
of it?" 
	HYDRA shook his head no. 
	"Just got it in from Amsterdam.  Hard to get a complete set, because the previous 
owners stripped out the plates and sold them.  Before his invasion Napoleon had it 
commissioned to impress the ancien regime, only a few hundred sets were ever made.  
Would you like to see a volume?  The prints are beautiful." 
	"Sure." 
	The forger scooped out an oversized flat package, showering the floor with scores 
of plastic pebbles.  He balanced it precariously on a small table laden with several uneven 
stacks of books and proceeded to unwrap it, revealing a large folio with a faded red 
leather cover. HYDRA watched silently as the forger deftly flipped through the first few 
pages, stopping at an engraving of an obelisk. 
	"Cleopatra's needle at Luxor: this one's usually torn out.  Nice, isn't it?" 
	HYDRA admired the engraving's detail, never realizing until then how much the 
First Consul thought of himself as another Alexander. 
	"Alright, enough of this," said the forger, slapping the book shut.  "You've come 
here to admire my work, not Napoleon's."  The forger turned to a small floor safe, spun 
the lock, and extracted a letter-sized file pocket.  He pulled a thick wallet out first and 
spread its plastic pockets on the desk.  Each pocket was filled with a different credit card. 
	"You can keep the wallet.  It's for you.  There're twenty-four cards inside it, based 
on the lists you gave me for Matthews, Gereke, and Koester."  The forger slipped 
Gereke's Visa card from its pocket and handed it to HYDRA, who twisted it slowly in the 
light. 
	"Hologram's an exact copy -- although I doubt anyone will ever check -- it's the 
information embedded on the strip on the back that works the card." 
	HYDRA shot the forger a worried glance. 
	"Don't worry -- strips on these babies are exact dupes of the ones on the list -- if 
you're worried, try making a ten dollar purchase somewhere and let them run it through." 
	HYDRA felt the brown strip on the card's back with his forefinger, while the 
forger nervously twisted the top of his long moustache.  HYDRA pulled each card, one 
after the other out of its plastic sheath, and checked it off a small list he had retrieved 
from his shirt pocket. 
	"These look good," he murmured.  "I can't tell the difference." 
	"You can't tell the difference because they're real," the forger chided.  "Blanks are 
from a friendly bank down in Colon." 
	HYDRA blinked in admiration.  The cartel covered every detail of its operations, 
even down to smuggling blank credit cards from its banks in Panama to its forger in 
Manhattan.  The forger slipped a second, thinner wallet from the file pocket and handed it 
to HYDRA. 
	"Driver's licenses for all three, plus some other miscellaneous picture ID you 
wanted." 
	HYDRA opened the wallet, examining each license under a nearby pharmacy 
lamp, then reinserted each piece and put the wallet in his pocket.  Next, the forger handed 
him an 8 1/2-by 11-inch file folder, tab unmarked.  Inside were two typewritten 
memoranda from Washington, D.C. with a series of code numbers in their upper right-
hand corners, addressed separately to Gereke and Koester, instructing each to report to his 
respective base no later than a certain time and date.  Maximum travel pay also given, 
with a note to inform base command whether recipient had decided to fly or drive. 
	"Now, I believe you owe me twelve thousand five hundred dollars," the forger 
uttered. 
	HYDRA grimaced, reached into his jacket pocket, and counted out the second 
payment in one hundred dollar bills, the forger twisting his moustache as he watched. 
	"Done." 
	HYDRA said nothing in response, watching the forger stuff everything back into 
the file pocket which he then took and let himself out the door. 


Chapter 19 

	 Instead of returning to his apartment after he left the Military Bookworm, 
HYDRA caught an uptown cab and told the driver to take him to La Guardia Airport, 
where he boarded  USAir nonstop Flight 11 to Kansas City, the home of Naval Air Force 
Reserve Lieutenant Gereke.  The flight was filled with a set of provincial-looking, middle 
managers in cheaply-tailored clothes mixed with a crowd of unattractive parents with 
even less attractive children.  The only single women on the plane were the pair of 
overworked and slightly angry stewardesses who quickly informed HYDRA the only 
magazines on board were the airline's own publication inside his seat pocket. 
	HYDRA walked towards the rear of the plane, choosing a seat by himself. He 
listlessly flipped through the inflight magazine, avoiding a testimonial on chemical 
dependency by a famous country singer; skipping a piece by Shirley MacLaine on one of 
her previous lives; and ignoring an article on the town billed as the next Nashville: 
Branson, Missouri.  Tossing the magazine in the empty seat next to him, HYDRA 
reconsidered the forger's advice regarding Gereke's orders to report to base.  HYDRA 
realized, of course, that simply murdering Gereke would not be acceptable if the reserve 
pilot's corpse were somehow discovered and its existence reported to the Navy before the 
time of his arrival at Pax River.  On the other hand, allowing Gereke to leave Kansas City 
for Washington would run the serious risk of losing control of the reservist once he 
boarded his flight,  especially if Gereke left on a Sunday evening and decided to go 
straight from National Airport to base BOQ without even checking into a motel.  A 
course of travel, HYDRA thought, that would be more than likely if Gereke were on a 
limited budget.   A second risk was that Gereke would complicate his trip to Washington, 
leaving early and making a layover stop that HYDRA wouldn't know about until the last 
minute. The sound of the Boeing's landing gear being lowered into place was followed by 
a brief announcement that the plane was descending into Kansas City International 
Airport and would land in less than twenty minutes.  From his window seat HYDRA 
examined the vast flat runway set alongside three donut shaped terminals surrounded by a 
sea of parked cars. 
	After the Boeing 737 landed and was taxiing towards the gate, HYDRA noted that 
no other planes took off or landed during the interim, while several of the gates at the 
terminal were empty.  That the Kansas City airport would be operating far below capacity 
hadn't occurred to him and he filed the fact away in his mind for future reference. 
	"I hope you enjoyed your flight," the stewardess said automatically to each 
passenger as he filed out the aircraft, and as he passed, HYDRA nodded politely in return. 
	Upon entering the terminal HYDRA's suspicions of the airport's level of inactivity 
were confirmed -- except for the passengers debarking from Flight 11, this part of the 
airport was almost deserted.  HYDRA waited patiently by the luggage claim for fifteen 
minutes, picked up his single bag, found a taxi, and gave his destination as the Ritz Hotel 
located in the Country Club Plaza shopping center.  Forty-five minutes later, after a drive 
through half-empty streets, he was deposited outside a curved and balconied hotel whose 
exterior with its Southwestern motif gave no hint of the faux-London-club design of its 
interior, complete with a large portrait in the style of Sergeant hanging in the bar. 
	HYDRA presented Russell Matthews' American Express card at the desk, telling 
the receptionist he would be staying in Kansas City for the week to ten days on business.  
He was immediately led to his room by a friendly bellhop who explained the location of 
the hotel's various bars and restaurants during the elevator ride, while HYDRA listened in 
polite silence.  For the next ten days HYDRA planned to make a meticulous examination 
of Gereke's existence, while at the same time maintaining as low a profile as possible at 
the hotel, so the less he said to anyone the better. 

	When Jack Gereke signed up for the Naval Air Reserve, he had neither requested 
nor expected to receive orders to report to a squadron of the strategic significance of VQ-
4 at Patuxent Naval Air Base.  Before joining the reserves, Lieutenant Gereke had been a 
transport pilot flying 747s for the United Parcel Service.  After he mustered out, he 
returned to college and studied accounting on the GI Bill, then became the CFO of a 
regional stock brokerage headquartered in Kansas City.  Partly to relieve the tedium of the 
office routine, partly because he missed flying, and partly to supplement his income 
Gereke decided a year later to join the Naval Air Force Reserves.  He made the usual 
commitment to report to camp a single weekend per month for the next eight years, in 
addition to agreeing to report for full-time duty for two weeks each year. 
	Otherwise Gereke's life was utterly predictable in almost every aspect.  Every 
Monday through Friday Gereke would arise at 7:00 a.m., have breakfast, shower, then 
would walk from his one-bedroom bachelor apartment located in the Country Club Plaza 
across Brush Creek to the Board of Trade Building.  Gereke would almost always leave 
the office between 5:30 p.m. and 6:00, sometimes stopping to have a drink in the first 
floor bar, but almost always returning directly home after that.  Not being a salesman, he 
saw no need to attend the various openings and cocktails where the brokers often went, 
preferring to spend most of his spare time with his own set of friends outside work. 
Weekends were somewhat less predictable, with Gereke alternating between going out 
with one of his regular girlfriends on a date or attending various sports functions with his 
male friends. 

	Thus, Gereke would have been quite shocked if someone had told him that, for 
more than a week, he had been the subject of surveillance by a professional whose last 
mission had entailed eliminating an entire crew of contract CIA agents.  The Naval 
Reserve lieutenant would have been even more surprised to learn that not only had his 
movements been thoroughly watched, but, in addition, the locks to his apartment had 
been picked, his mail had been read, his personal effects had received a thorough search, 
and a permanent, encrypted FM digital transmitter which had a range of greater than one 
mile had been placed on his telephone line. 


Chapter 20 

	The next morning HYDRA caught the first nonstop flight to Seattle.  He arrived at 
10:15 a.m. local time and immediately rented a Pontiac Grand Am at the airport's Avis 
counter, since Naval Air Reserve Lieutenant Jack Gereke's tour of the Naval Submarine 
Base at Bangor was scheduled to begin in an hour and fifteen minutes at 11:30 a.m. 
HYDRA followed Interstate 5 north where he took the exit for Edmond's Way which 
wound for 12 miles to the ferryport of Edwards.  At Edwards HYDRA drove to the 
terminal area and purchased a ticket for passage to Kingston aboard the Hyak, one of the 
Washington State Ferry System's shapely triple-deckers.  Since it was the middle of a 
weekday morning, traffic was light enough for HYDRA to board on the next departure. 
	Thirty minutes later the Grand Am drove off the Hyak's car deck into Kingston, a 
town which lay on the north of the Kitsap Peninsula on the opposite coast of the Puget 
Sound.  HYDRA drove peacefully across the peninsula on a local road bordered on both 
sides by untouched forests.  Turning off Highway 3, he took Trident Boulevard to the 
main gate, giving the security guard on duty Lieutenant Gereke's ID and telling him he 
had been scheduled to take the Trident tour. 
	After barely glancing at Gereke's driver's license, the guard rifled through a stack 
of papers, confirming Gereke was indeed on the Public Affairs Department's list, then 
issued the Pontiac a temporary pass and directed HYDRA to wait in the pass and ID 
office to the left of the gate.  Ten minutes later HYDRA's group was met by Mary R. 
Lopez, Lieutenant Junior Grade, and also his tour guide for the day.  Lopez, an attractive 
brunette in her early thirties, led her group outside to a navy-blue, 15-passenger Chevy 
van, and waited for them to take their seats before she picked up her microphone and 
began to speak. 
	"First of all, I want to welcome all of you to Naval Submarine Base, Bangor, 
where we're the home base for a squadron of 560-foot Ohio-class submarines.  Today 
we're going to go on what's called the Trident Tour showing you one of three key 
elements of our strategic deterrent triad. The nuclear triad is composed of one, land-based 
missiles, two, manned bombers, and  third, the Navy's fleet ballistic missile program, 
known as Trident.  Trident, which takes its name from King Neptune's three-pronged 
spear, also can be broken down into three key components: the missile, the submarine and 
the base." 
	The van stopped for a moment in front of a second gate. 
	"Bangor is a closed base and the gate we are about to go through is our first level 
of security," Lopez informed them as she motioned the security guard to wave them 
through. The driver took the first left off Trident Road, passing the first building. 
	"On your left is the SUBASE Administration building.  It provides offices for the 
base commanding officer, his staff, and Naval Communications Station, Puget Sound.  
The tower is used to transmit and receive messages for the commands on the base.  
Personnel Support Detachment is the next building on your left.  This command is 
responsible for maintaining the records and pay for approximately 5,000 Navy personnel 
stationed here." 
	HYDRA checked his map, finding Hunley Road.  The Public Affairs office had 
kindly highlighted the van's path with yellow magic marker indirectly that the tour would 
make a crude circle of the base.  The van turned left again onto Tautog Circle which was 
filled with empty guard huts and abandoned security fences. 
	"This used to be the only entrance to the base and was guarded by Marines," Lopez 
explained.  "Now, the Navy no longer uses Marines for gate guards.  The base 
commanding officer is responsible for administering the Base Operating Services 
Contract which is currently held by Sharp Controls.  The multimillion dollar contract 
supports the base mission by providing services through one multifunction contract.  The 
contract employs civilians who perform jobs such as security guards, firemen, 
photographers, ground maintenance, and transportation drivers." 
	HYDRA was relieved to hear that a civilian security force had replaced the 
Marines.  Presenting Gereke's papers to an outsider would be safer than having to show 
them to a guard from a rival service.  They halted at a stop sign, went straight for a block, 
then turned left on Sculpin, passing a group of white buildings with weather-beaten 
facades. 
	"The buildings you see on both sides are from the 1940s.  We are currently using 
them as offices.  After the Navy purchased more than 7,000 acres in 1942, the base served 
as an ammunition transshipment point during World War Two, the Korean War and the 
Vietnam Conflict. 
	"Straight ahead is the public works area.  Transportation and ground maintenance 
equipment and the offices for employees are here." 
	As Lopez droned on about the bachelor enlisted quarters to their right, HYDRA 
stared out the window of the van, realizing that no matter what direction he looked, his 
view was some part of the 7,000-acre facility.  Its sheer size would help minimize the 
importance of the arrival of any single individual on the base, especially one who only 
intended to briefly visit the courier transfer shed, make a quick repair, then leave.  The 
van turned and HYDRA noted the street sign indicated they were on Trigger Avenue.  
Two silver-colored pools of water reflected on his left. 
	"On your left are two man-made lakes.  They are used for rainfall flood control 
and recreational fishing.  Covered barbecue/picnic facilities, hiking trail (Boy Scout 
project), BMX trail and softball diamond are also in this area.  As you can see it is an 
easy walk from family housing. 
	"Coming up on the left is outdoor gear issue.  A service member can rent all kinds 
of equipment such as campers and camping gear, boats and fishing gear, and skiing 
equipment.  Next door is an auto repair shop . . ." 
	HYDRA ignored the descriptions of the auto parts store and gas station 
accompanying the repair shop and leafed briefly through the brochure that came with the 
map.  Most of the brochure was filled with specs on the Trident submarine, which, 
HYDRA read, was quieter, faster, larger and more powerful than any submarine the US 
Navy had ever put afloat.  Their 560-foot LOA made the Ohio-class two feet larger than 
the Russian Typhoon-class boats, but the Ohio-class still could boast a much narrower 
diameter at 42 feet.  The Ohio boats also only displaced 18,750 tons when submerged, 
compared with the Typhoon's relatively bulky 30,000 tons.  Ohio-class ballistic missile 
submarine's top speed of 30 knots was also three knots faster than the Typhoon's.  And 
the Ohio-class $1.2 billion price tag per boat was a bargain compared with the potential 
destructive power of each sub's complement of twenty-four Trident ballistic missiles. 
	They passed the community service area on Pompano Street, where the credit 
union, library and more bachelor quarters were located, then turned right onto Thresher 
when Lopez resumed her narrative. 
	"On your right is the headquarters of Commander, Submarine Group Nine.  He has 
administrative control of commands and units assigned in the Pacific Northwest and 
coordinates all submarine matters in the Pacific Northwest.  Behind his headquarters are 
medical and dental clinics. 
	"Next is the Trident Training Facility.  While one crew is at sea, the off-crew or 
crew on shore, spends a lot of time here.  The training facility offers initial, advanced and 
refresher training.  All systems aboard a Trident submarine are in this building, except for 
the nuclear reactor.  This equipment is connected to computer systems to simulate at-sea 
operations and problems. 
	"Directly in front of us is the Off-Crew Administration Building.  Each submarine 
crew has a set of offices and classrooms in this building.  One crew has the submarine at 
sea and the other crew uses this area for their offices while ashore.  When the submarine 
returns, both crews pack up and trade." Lopez clicked off her microphone and the van 
stopped abruptly in front of a security fence and guardpost which resembled the one at the 
main gate.  HYDRA rechecked the map.  The van had completed the first small loop and 
was returning to the intersection of Trident Road and Trigger Avenue.  As the guards 
waved them through Lopez answered the question which had just formed itself in 
HYDRA's mind.  "The base has several levels of security.  The guards at the main gate 
and perimeter gates provide that first level of security.  During heightened defense 
conditions, security guards are stationed here as a second level.  From here we proceed 
into the operational area, called the lower base.  The number of people working in this is 
limited.  There are no cameras allowed in the operational area," Lopez emphasized. 
	"On your right is Strategic Weapon Facility, Pacific.  This command is responsible 
for the assembly, maintenance and storage of the Trident missiles.  The buildings you see 
are for the assembly of the missile by Lockheed and other contractor personnel.  This area 
is the third level of security, as you can see, this area has the highest security on the base.  
Additional security includes manned guard towers, double fences and numerous sensors.  
We have about 350 Marines stationed at Bangor.  Their sole mission is to protect this 
area.  The blue poles you see adjacent to the buildings are lightning rods." 
	So Lieutenant Gereke would have to pass through three security checkpoints and 
present his papers each time before he reached the communications shed, HYDRA 
thought to himself, taking a careful look at the third guardpost as they passed.  At the 
second light, the van made a brief detour to the left off Trigger Avenue and entered a 
small circular drive, which surrounded an impressive set of missile replicas. 
	"Coming up on your right is a missile display.  The Strategic Weapons Facility you 
just saw was used to produce the smaller Polaris missile in the 1960s, but the Polaris has 
since been replaced by the larger Trident.  The Trident I is 34 feet high, 6 feet in diameter 
and weighs 71,000 pounds.  Each missile costs about $13 million and has a range of 
4,000 nautical miles, and each Trident submarine is capable of carrying 24 of these 
missiles.  The Trident submarines are designed to upgrade to the much larger Trident II 
(D-5) missile. . ."
	Powered by a solid-fuel rocket engine, possessing more sophisticated navigation 
equipment than the ICBM, each Trident C-4 carried eight MK 4 100-kiloton multiple 
independent reentry vehicle warheads (MIRVs) with a circular error of probability of less 
than 500 yards.  Each MIRV warhead could either be aimed separately at eight different 
targets within the missile's footprint, or combined for a devastating single strike.  
	They exited the circle, returned to Trigger Avenue, then continued their gradual 
circle of the base, passing through a heavily wooded area, which Lopez informed them 
was maintained by a full-time forester.  In addition a full-time game warden kept the 
lakes stocked with fish and watched over the base's population of deer, bear, wildcat, and 
geese. After that they passed a tall building where periscope maintenance was performed, 
when a muddy canal loomed in front of the van, slicing through the pines.
	"In front of the bus you can see Hood Canal," Lopez informed them as they turned 
a sharp right onto Sealion Road.  "Hood Canal is deep enough that we could submerge a 
Trident as soon as it pulled away from the pier.  In peacetime, however, the submarines 
make their transit to the ocean on the surface. 
	"The base owns 5 miles of waterfront.  We are 155 miles from the Pacific Ocean.  
Through the trees on your left is our service pier.  This is where the tugboats, security 
boats and other support watercraft are docked." 
	Passing the salmon ladder, they wound along the canal, then turned left, and went 
up a steep hill, where the driver pulled over to give the van's occupants a dramatic view 
of these giant docks, the middle of which was filled with the sleek black hull of the USS 
Michigan which was in for repairs.  
	"The Delta Refit Pier is controlled by Trident Refit Facility.  It is the single largest 
piece of construction on the base.  Each leg of the pier is 700 feet long, and from shore to 
apex is 1300 feet.  Delta pier can accommodate three submarines -- one on the north side, 
one on the south side, and one in the dry dock.    The dry dock, which is parallel to  the 
shoreline, is 700 feet long, 65 feet deep and 90 feet wide and holds about 21 million 
gallons of water.  Each time before the dry dock is flooded with Hood Canal water, it and 
the submarine in the dock are washed down.  The water then goes to a treatment plant 
above the Delta Pier before going into the county sewage system." 
	HYDRA checked his watch; the tour would be finished in fifteen minutes.  
Turning left on Seawolf Road, they entered in parking lot, stopping for a better view of a 
large wharf.  Lieutenant Lopez spoke into her handheld microphone, "On your left is the 
Explosive Handling Wharf.  It provides an enclosed, weather protected wharf for missile 
and torpedo loading and off-loading.  The Trident I missile, enclosed in a protective 
canister, is transported from a bunker to the Explosive Handling Wharf on a flatbed truck.  
A crane hoists the container to a vertical position and swings it over to the appropriate 
missile tube on the submarine, then a winch lowers the missile into the hole.  By the way, 
you may be interested to know that the Navy owns over 400 acres on the opposite side of 
Hood Canal as a buffer zone."  Several of the passengers caught the joke, chuckling at the 
thought of an errant torpedo hissing across Hood Canal and exploding on impact on the 
opposite bank. 
	The next stop revealed a single pier, similar in construction to one of the Delta 
piers seen previously with one significant difference -- the whole length of the pier was 
looped with a semicylinder of cable.  Lopez explained its existence to those who didn't 
already know: "This 700 foot timber pier is built of nonmagnetic materials and looped 
power cables.  Because a submarine is such a large metal object, it will acquire a 
magnetic charge, and since an electromagnetic charge is something that can be detected 
by aircraft and ships, giving away the submarine's location, its absence is important to the 
survival of the vessel.  Everywhere else in the Navy, cables are manually wrapped around 
a submarine, as you can imagine, manual wrapping takes a lot of time.  But at Bangor, a 
submarine can pull into the Magnetic Silencing Facility and in a few hours its degaussing 
is fully completed.  Degaussing is similar to erasing an audio cassette tape.  By the way, 
this procedure is not performed every time the submarine is in port, but  periodically, each 
submarine drives over a range where the amount of magnetism is measured." 
	HYDRA rechecked his map.  The tour was finished except for a last look at 
eastern side of the Strategic Weapons Facility. They were turning around, the driver was 
returning to the main gate via Flier Road.  Halfway to the operational area gate, HYDRA 
caught a glimpse of an area guarded just as heavily as the Strategic Weapons Facilities, 
which Lieutenant Lopez pointedly ignored even though it could be seen right outside the 
window.  Armed Marines stood in guard towers behind double cyclone fences, carefully 
eyeing them as they passed by. HYDRA guessed from the array of antennas and parabolic 
dishes that it was the home of the base's Naval Communications Station, Lieutenant 
Gereke's final scheduled destination. 


Chapter 21 

	The next morning a spring rain loosened the hard earth, and the Dobermans which 
patrolled the grounds of the National Security Agency were unusually aware of any new 
odors or sounds in the air.  At 6:59 a.m., the handlers felt their canine sentries struggle 
against their leashes, before they, the sentries on the grounds, saw the caravan of dark 
sedans snaking its way towards the guardhouse.  The gatekeepers, too, had removed 
whatever remaining trace of humor they had been allowed to display, and greeted the first 
car with stiff salutes.  
	"Dr. Holland," the sentry barked, snapping to attention.  
	"Check each car; I know the rules," Woodring replied, rolling down his window. 
	Each automobile in the caravan was halted and thoroughly searched, its passengers 
and contents checked against a classified list which had just been hand-delivered by 
White House courier. 
	Instead of the usual single sentry posted at each end of the hallway, the floor 
housing the Transcription Department had been reinforced with an unnecessary additional 
platoon of FPS commandos armed with automatic weapons. 
	"This is Dr. Holland," Glen Hockaday announced to the platoon leader, whom the 
professor distinguished by the medallion on the peak of his SWAT-style cap. 
	"Yes, sir.  Our orders are to check the ID of all personnel, Professor," the 
commando replied, placing Hockaday's plastic badge into what resembled a credit-card 
verification device. 
	"Alright, sergeant, but let's make it quick," Woodring snapped. 
	"Yes, sir!  Hawkins, Montoya, get over here and verify these IDs!" the FPS 
sergeant barked at two of his men.   
	In a matter of minutes a heterogeneous crew of twenty FBI and NSA personnel 
had been cleared through the temporary command post and gathered silently in a small 
cluster, facing Hockaday and Woodring.  The ex-classics professor handed each man an 
identically sized computer printout and a three-by-five inch index card with a number on 
it.  A small key had been scotch-taped to the backside of each man's card, giving him 
access to one of ten offices. 
	In each office two FBI counterintelligence agents met with the head of each 
language division in Transcriptions, in order to sift through the translations of the raw 
computer output.  Hockaday's list of trigger words were cross-referenced with the word 
"Wimex" in all its possible variations, then fed into the largest bank of mainframe 
computers ever assembled in a single location inside the United States.  In anticipation of 
the arrival of Woodring and his troops, a high capacity data link was also set up between 
Ft. George and the FBI's Counterterrorism Center to check for correlations between any 
of the speakers and a previous record of criminal and/or terrorist activity, with a particular 
emphasis put on Arab and Iranian residents of the United States and their associates 
abroad. 
	For the next twenty-four hours, the ten teams of specialists sifted through 
translations of thousands of telecommunications, finding many references to the various 
key words and their synonyms, but without ever finding a single cross-reference to the 
word "Wimex" or any of its synonyms.  

	Early the next morning, a young linguist from Harvard who had been assigned to 
work with F. Jackson Tice and was half-buried in the mass of paper spread across Tice's 
desk, spoke for the first time in hours.
	"I think I found something." 
	F. Jackson Tice said nothing, got out of his chair and followed his assistant to the 
office directly adjacent. 
	"What is it?" asked Hockaday, looking first at Tice, then at the young linguist from 
Harvard. 
	"Sir, there's no Wimex matchup, but this ciphertext was recorded the day before 
Saleh was killed," the young Harvard student stuttered. 
	"Ciphertext?" Hockaday queried. "What group is it?" 
	"TCOM, Group 6-11." 
	Hockaday snatched the transcription from the student's hand, then turned to Tice. 
"Jackson, follow me back to my office." After Tice had shut the door, Dr. Hockaday 
allowed himself a smile.  He immediately sat facing the computer terminal and typed in 
his password. 
	F. Jackson Tice read the corresponding index number on the computer index.
	"TCOM Group L-11, 00605054," Tice responded, feeling something wasn't right. 
	Hockaday tapped in the transcription group code numbers and waited for his 
screen to respond.  Seconds later a message in English scrolled from left to right across 
the screen.  F. Jackson Tice winced as he heard Dr. Hockaday's sharp intake of breath.  
	"Bad news?" 
	"Tell Woodring I want to see him in here immediately," Hockaday spoke with a 
frightening gravity, handing him the transcript. "Then call Czarlinsky and tell him we're 
coming down." 
	Tice's eyes stopped dead on the neutral-sounding phrase: "Must consult TCOM for 
decrypt approval."
	"My God!  'Consult TCOM for decrypt approval.'  What's this supposed to mean, 
Glen?" demanded Tice, gripping the sheet so tightly his knuckles had turned white, but 
Hockaday was already at his door motioning for Woodring to come to his office. 
	"What's up?" Woodring asked once inside. 
	"We've got problems," muttered Hockaday under his breath. Hockaday handed 
Woodring the undeciphered transcript.  Then, to Tice, "Jackson, call SWITCHBOARD 
and have them get a helicopter ready on standby." 
	"Yes, Glen." 
	"What's going on here?" Woodring asked himself aloud, ignoring Hockaday's 
suggestion.  "How come we have to get permission to decrypt?" 
	"Woody?" 
	Woodring looked up at Hockaday as if he were from another world. 
	"Let's go." 

	On the way to the telecommunications group Woodring and Hockaday passed row 
after row of various type of analysts seated in front of CRT screens connected to an array 
of sophisticated computing and signals analysis devices.  Each man showed his pass to 
the guard at the desk, then once inside the door, they were immediately met by Ken 
Czarlinsky, TCOM's chief. After Dr. Hockaday made the introductions, he handed 
Czarlinsky a copy of the encrypted transcript. 
	"What's Group L? I don't remember ever hearing about it," Hockaday began 
pleasantly enough. 
	"It's a new spread spectrum group we just put together with the machine 
processing people, so we're not putting out much product yet." 
	"Then what prompted your group to issue this transcript to my department?" 
demanded Hockaday. 
	"We didn't issue it to your department; it probably just got sent up there in error.  
The sweep you ran was pretty broad, you realize." 
	"So what's spread spectrum?" asked David Woodring. 
	"Sorry for the jargon," Czarlinsky apologized.  "OK, you understand how a cellular 
telephone works, right?" 
	"Kind of." 
	"OK, a cellular phone essentially takes an analog signal, the voice, and broadcasts 
it on a set frequency to a base station.  If you happen to be listening to that frequency and 
you're in range of the device, you can listen in on the conversation unimpeded." 
	"Right." 
	"So, needless to say, there are many people who want the flexibility of cellular but 
don't like its vulnerability to eavesdropping." 
	"Right." 
	"So they generally do a couple of things to protect themselves -- one, they can 
digitize the signal, so to an eavesdropper it'll sound like a fax line, second they can 
encrypt the digital signal, plus they can channel hop, making it harder for their 
transmission to be caught." 
	"Which type of challenge does all that present to TCOM?" interrupted Hockaday. 
	"Almost none.  Remember, this is NSA.  Almost every digital transmission 
generates its own signature, which we can locate and track; most of the encoding chips 
used in industry are only 16 bits, which we can break; and frequency hopping isn't much 
of a problem, because we can monitor them all at once and recapitulate the broadcast 
later." 
	"So why use spread spectrum?" Woodring asked.
	"Instead of simple channel hopping, which, like I said, we can easily reassemble, a 
user sending a digital message over cellular spread spectrum just disappears into the 
ether.  Poof!" 
	"Why?"
	"Spread spectrum is very difficult to track, very tough." 
	"Why?" asked Hockaday. 
	"Well," Czarlinsky grinned, "it's simple, really.  Instead of dividing the signal 
among a discrete number of channels, the users spread it like butter across the whole 
spectrum, so it more or less just disappears unless you're really looking for it." 
	"Why don't the stronger signals on all the other channels just wipe it out?" queried 
a perplexed Woodring. 
	"It's spread in the space between them.  They don't even do a thing." 
	"Look, each channel's such a small part of the total signal, it only wipes out a 
millionth of the total bandwidth.  That's just a minor bit of interference as far as the 
receiver is concerned.  It'll just cancel it out, not affecting the final signal integrity at all." 
	Woodring blew air out his cheeks in confusion, feeling the beginnings of a slight 
headache around his temples. 
	"But TCOM has managed to intercept spread spectrum broadcasts, haven't they?" 
asked Hockaday. 
	"Of course, that's our business." 
	"So what is the intercept technology?" pressed Hockaday. 
	"Basically, high-order cyclostationary processing," replied Czarlinsky, unable to 
repress a grin. 
	"You mean higher mathematical analysis?" Hockaday shot back, putting 
Czarlinsky back in his place.
	"Right.  Every signal, no matter how weak, especially if it's encrypted, still has a 
signature -- even one that's been spectrum spread." 
	"So you'd be able to locate the sender if he sent another message?" Woodring 
guessed aloud. 
	"Right." 
	"Based on what?" asked Hockaday. 
	"Periodicity, clock synchronization, system artifacts . . . preambles," Czarlinsky 
ticked off the list in his head, stopping when he saw the two blank faces in front of him. 
	"OK.  Sorry.  Look, if you have a computer and you encrypt a message into binary 
code and I have a computer and I have the key to decrypt that message -- the ability to 
change a meaningless series of numbers back into a meaningful series of numbers -- how 
does your computer know which number to start deciphering in the chain, so that its key 
will work?  Remember, if your computer starts in the wrong place, it'll just turn the 
encoded numbers my computer just sent you into a different set of gibberish." 
	"Both computers have a clock," Hockaday mused aloud. 
	"Bingo!  That's what we call the synchronicity dichotomy, the key to 
cyclostationary processing." 
	"So why did you refuse to decrypt this?" 
	"Sorry, Glen, I'm afraid I can't answer that," replied Czarlinsky sotto voce. 
	Before Hockaday could press further, a voice at the door hollered out, "Dr. 
Hockaday! Doctor Hockaday! Are you in there?" 
	"Yes!" Hockaday testily replied. 
	"Call for you, sir," announced the Federal Protective Service guard, "On 
SWITCHBOARD!"
	"I'll take it in here," Hockaday announced through the still closed door. 
	"But, sir -- " 
	"I said, I'll take it in here!" 
	As soon as he saw the extension light flicker on Czarlinsky's telephone, Hockaday 
punched the button and raised the handset to his right ear. 
	"Yes, Lincoln . . . You what? It's outside now? . . . Yes, we can be on it."  
Hockaday hung up the phone and looked at it a moment. 
	"What was that?" Woodring asked. 
	"Lincoln's sent his helicopter.  It's waiting outside.  He knows about the transcript." 

	An electric cart burst out the doors of Building No. 4, sped along Savage Road to 
the headquarters tower, circled around it, and slammed to a stop next to a Bell Huey HH-
1H twelve-seater with civilian markings. The HH-1H was positioned into the wind with 
its rotors whining, ready for take off.  Ducking to avoid the downwash, Woodring rushed 
after Hockaday into the open hatch, stumbling into the nearest seat just as the chopper 
rose off its skids. The pilot had inadvertently left on the intercom, and radio traffic from 
several nearby civilian and military bases was blaring throughout the cabin, making 
conversation impossible.  
	After the pilot had adjusted the throttle and collective to maintain altitude and 
heading, he performed a 360o spot turn to confirm his perimeter was clear, then moved 
forward, his nose pitched up in the air.  At fifty feet of altitude, he crabbed into the wind 
to maintain a proper ground track, while Woodring stared out the window, watching the 
shrinking size of the traffic on the Baltimore Washington Parkway.  The Huey raced 
along the northern suburbs from Maryland to Virginia, and in no time Woodring found 
himself looking at the Potomac, which wound beneath him like a silver snake in the cool 
noonday sun. 
	Across the Potomac and past the parkway, a single, seven-story, gray-white 
building rose before them, set like a toy on a lawn cut large square in the middle of a 
dense pine forest.  The pilot banked steeply, giving Woodring a birdseye view of a 
cantilevered canopy, before they landed on the lawn twenty yards from the main door.  A 
small crew in dark blue uniforms was running across the grass to meet them. 
	Ducking under the rotors, CIA security staff escorted Hockaday and Woodring 
into the lobby, waved them through the turnstiles at the entrance gate, and led them 
through the lobby up a short flight of stairs, leaving them in the same sitting room 
Generals Vaughn and Praeger had visited a week earlier. 
	The door to the DCI's private elevator opened, as if on cue, and the same assistant 
who had met the two generals before ushered them all inside.  When they reached the 
seventh floor, Daniels' assistant took them directly to the director's office. 
K/J14-NEWA

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