program. He sat back in his chair, sipping on a can of soda, waiting for the next Soviet agent to be unveiled. Cole choked in midgulp when the digitized photo appeared in the corner of the screen. The picture, though taken several years ago, bore an uncanny resemblance to Alex Roe.
Cole selected the cover-history option from the menu and, word by word, fed the information into the translation program. What came back confirmed his initial reaction. According to the text, the photograph belonged to a KGB deep-cover agent named Anna Mironova. The agent Cormorant was assigned to the acquisition of scientific and technological information under the cover of a Western journalist, freelance writer Alexandra Roe. The disk left no doubt. Cole had aided a foreign agent in acquiring restricted technology. An overwhelming sense of nausea swept over him.
He sat for several minutes, stunned by the truth about Roe. Gradually, his brain began to thaw from its initial panic and he started sifting through the rest of the Cormorant file. The list of commendations was extensive and, even though Cole didn’t bother to translate all of them, he quickly realized that Roe was a valuable agent.
The last entry in the file was dated August 1991, just a few weeks before the coup attempt. Unlike the other commendation entries, this one had no bold capitalized entry naming the decoration. Instead, it was just a single sentence. Cole typed the entry into the computer and waited for the translation. The entry read: ‘10 August, 1991 Capt. Anna Mironova was killed in an automobile accident while on assignment.’
Cole reread the translation several times. He even retyped it into the computer to double-check it, and the computer returned with the obituary for Mironova.
Cole’s thoughts raced. If Villano was right about KGB record keeping, then the files in Lubyanka might list Mironova’s many honors, but they would say nothing about how she had earned them. Yakushev’s operational files would hold the only detailed account of Mironova’s activities under the alias of Alex Roe, and the only known copy of those files was on this disk. As far as Moscow is concerned, Cole thought, Mironova died over seven years ago. Case closed.
In the midst of his disbelief, Cole made an intuitive leap: If Roe had faked her death in order to escape Moscow’s control, how would her former masters deal with her if they discovered this deception?
A wicked smile curled on his face; the tables had turned. He now possessed information as dangerous to Roe as the Gerty report was to him-information that vastly improved his bargaining position with Roe and her partner. Cole copied Yakushev’s program diskettes and the Cormorant disk onto four blank diskettes of the type that the CIA bought in bulk, then placed the copies inside his briefcase. He then scratched the Mylar surface of the original Cormorant diskette with a paper clip, rendering it unreadable.
13
December 20
‘Shift change,’ Gates’s raspy voice whispered through Kilkenny’s earpiece. Changing of the guards at Masson’s base camp.
Kilkenny repositioned himself and looked through a pair of night-vision binoculars at the camp below. Since passing Masson’s gory marker just over a week ago, the SEALs had tracked and studied the activities in the guerrilla camp. The satellite photos they had used in preparing for this mission showed elements of the compound but gave little feel for how the place worked. That kind of information could only be gathered firsthand. Several days of on-site observation gave the squad the familiarity they needed in order to succeed.
What they discovered about their opposition’s security astounded them. No mines, no trip wires, no booby traps of any kind. The most formidable aspect ofMasson’s defenses was the fear he’d spread over the surrounding villages, a fear that the SEALs did not share. The only protective efforts they detected at the encampment amounted to a few bored men casually patrolling the perimeter. The safety of this remote jungle haven had made Masson’s men lax on their home turf.
Kilkenny set the binoculars down and closed his eyes in a silent prayer. The plan was set and his squad had taken up their positions around the camp. Tonight, they would attack. Kilkenny prayed for the safety of his men.
LITTLE CREEK NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE, VIRGINIA
Dawson walked into the Operations Center and signed into one of the mission observation rooms. The rooms mirrored their larger counterparts in the Pentagon, where senior officers and mission planners watched missions unfold. During World War II, it took days before film footage and reports from the battlefield reached the Pentagon. Now, through the use of satellite imagery and the combat electronics worn by his men, Dawson could witness the drama played out live. The downside of all this advanced technology was the very real possibility of seeing some of his men die in action.
He snapped his headset into place and punched in his access code. The five-by-ten high-definition wall display changed color as the computer confirmed his code and tied him into the mission feed from the Pentagon. An image of southern Haiti, as seen by a reconnaissance satellite passing over two hundred miles above and enhanced by a bank of supercomputers at the National Reconnaissance Office near Dulles, filled the display.
With a few keystrokes, Dawson superimposed mission elements onto the screen. Offshore, the Columbia remained on-station, waiting for her rendezvous with his men. A cluster of man-shaped icons were lumped together, deep in the jungle northeast of Jacmel.
He zoomed in on the cluster and switched from realtime imaging to infrared. Now he could see what his SEALs were up against. Over the past week, he, too, had been studying Masson’s camp from this room, taking a head count of the opposition. His men were outnumbered four to one, and Dawson hoped that this was Masson’s only advantage tonight.
Just minutes from now, at zero hundred hours local time, Kilkenny and his men would attack. A brief message from the SEALs indicated that everything was ready and the mission was still on. The guerrilla camp looked quiet, with only a token force on patrol, as the SEALs started to move. The assault had begun.
Gates and Rodriguez stalked the young soldier patrolling the perimeter of the camp. His rifle was slung carelessly over his shoulder and a cigarette dangled from his lips, each drag illuminating his face and robbing him of his night vision.
That mistake will cost you dearly tonight, Gates thought.
The sentry kept looking back at the hut on the edge of the camp-the whorehouse. His mind was obviously on the women who languished there as sex slaves. A terrified scream from the hut, followed by a loud stream of violent cursing, brought a smile to the sentry’s face as he leaned against a tree and smoked his cigarette.
Nothing fancy, Gates admonished himself, just take him out.
From a crouch, Gates sprang up in front of the sentry just as a plume of smoke billowed from the man’s mouth. Before his tiger-striped face even registered in the sentry’s eyes, Gates drove his fingers into the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe.
The sentry gasped, eyes bulging as Gates grabbed him by the head and expertly snapped his neck. Gates cradled the man, slowly lowering his lifeless body into the underbrush. Around the camp, the maneuver was repeated until the entire night patrol had been eliminated.
Near the hut where their female captives were kept, several soldiers sat near a small fire, laughing and drinking.
‘ Merde! ’ a haggard soldier growled as he stumbled out of the hut, struggling to pull up his tattered pants.
‘What’s the problem, old man,’ one of the younger soldiers remarked, ‘couldn’t get it up?’
‘Hah!’ the older soldier spat back. ‘Fucking has never been a problem. Watch yourself around that new bitch- she’s got claws and teeth.’
‘I like a woman who fights,’ a tall, muscular soldier boasted proudly.
‘She’s waiting for you, Gano,’ the older soldier replied as he inspected a gash on his stomach.
Gano handed the older soldier his bottle of rum and walked slowly toward the hut. Inside, several women huddled in a darkened corner, hoping to make themselves invisible, to disappear from this hellish place. Gano
