BlackStar Mountain

by T C Miller

  Benson hummed a soft tune as they walked to the rental car. She had only worked with Johansen for a few months. This was the first time he showed thinking that was agent caliber. He has a brain!

  ***

  CHAPTER 5

  OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR, NSA

  FORT MEADE, MD

  “Justin, come in here,” Marvin Hawkins’ voice conveyed frustration and annoyance.

  “Certainly, sir,” Justin Todd replied as he grabbed his notebook and headed into the inner office. The smell of a burning cigarette greeted him as a blue-tinged curl drifted lazily toward the ceiling. “I am sure you are aware, sir, that smoking anywhere in the building is forbidden...That aside, how may I help?”

  “How I am supposed to read all of these reports?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Don’t know how any person could read them in one day.”

  He pointed to the stack of folders Justin laid on the Director’s desk earlier in the day. It sat next to a similar stack from yesterday that was nearly as tall. “Does the Director?”

  “Yes, sir, but he is usually in the office by six and stays until late in the evening.”

  “Must not have a life. I knew he worked longer hours, but this is untenable...How am I supposed to do it?”

  Get here before ten and stay after four. “I suppose I could read them and produce a summary...Of course, that would require longer hours...”

  “Fine, then...Problem solved.”

  For you. “I may also need to appropriate your current assistant.”

  “Excellent idea...Make it so,” he said in an almost cheerful voice.

  He followed it with an insincere smile.

  “As you wish, sir...Is there anything else?”

  “Yes...Is my presence really necessary this afternoon? I have some personal business to attend to.”

  The personal business involved a liaison at a five-star hotel with a college student—an affair that was common knowledge among a small circle of associates that did not include his wife.

  “How much time would you require, sir?”

  “A couple of hours would be adequate...three would be better.”

  “I can reschedule a few of your appointments from two o’clock on...if that would suffice.”

  “Indeed it will. One more thing...The Director’s driver, Jim or Jimmy...”

  “Timothy, sir.”

  “Whatever...Do I have to use him?”

  “He has been the Director’s driver for years...Is there a problem?”

  “Don’t like the way he looks at me...Seems judgmental for a low-level employee.”

  “I am sure he is simply concerned for your safety...which is one of his duties.”

  “Yes, yes, I know...But I feel like he’s comparing me to the Director...Don’t appreciate it.”

  “Trust is important, sir...Perhaps I should arrange for another driver?”

  “Good...Makeitso.”

  If he says make it so one more time...“Yes, sir, will there be anything else?”

  “No.”

  “By-the-by, Mister Hawkins, you may want to revisit smoking in this office...The Director would be furious.”

  “Call me Director Hawkins, and I don’t care what he thinks. Now leave me alone.”

  Justin returned to his desk and thought about how to let his contact at the Consortium know of the conversation.

  He was fairly certain they would suggest which driver to substitute for Timothy. They would also want to guide his work on the daily reports in shaping them to suit the Commission’s agenda.

  He pressed the intercom button. “Acting Director Hawkins, I need to hand carry some files to the Senate Office Building...I will be gone a while.”

  “Fine...Get some lackey from the secretarial pool to watch the phones...I have some calls to make.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He called the secretarial supervisor, then picked up his sat phone and left.

  CONSORTIUM LEADERS CONFERENCE

  LEIPSIG ALPINE RESORT, SWISS ALPS

  “Was today’s session typical?” Gunter, now code-named US-1, posed the question to Marta.

  They sat in her sparsely furnished office behind the hotel. It contained a blonde-wood desk that held only a telephone, an in-box and a pen caddy. The wall of shelves behind her had a few pieces of postmodern sculpture and a multi-time-zone clock. A credenza at the bottom ran the length of the wall.

  She considered her answer at length before speaking. “I’m in an awkward position...As your sponsor, and host for the conference, I should limit my responses to Commission policy and refrain from offering personal opinions.”

  “I understand your predicament. On the other hand, as I move from local agent supervisor to Director of Operations in the US, I would appreciate your insight...especially in view of our...”

  “Our work together was quite successful, wasn’t it?”

  Her expression changed ever so slightly and he immediately picked up on the meaning. She was subtly telling him the room was bugged.

  He continued his sentence with a slight change, “In view of our future working relationship, I assume you will answer questions that might arise.”

  “Yes, of course. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m famished...Shall we walk to the hotel restaurant?”

  “That would be entirely your choice, although I am interested in trying out one of the establishments in town...”

  “Why not? Is this your first visit to the Alps?”

  “Yes, and who knows how soon I shall return?”

  Twenty minutes later they settled into a table in the rear of a three-star restaurant that specialized in local fare. The fragrant scent of a perfectly prepared and well-presented rack of lamb with a piquant mint jelly swirled around them.

  He was intent on gathering information about the Commission, but afraid she would respond poorly to pressure.

  She, on the other hand, peppered him with questions about his operations in America, as well as his background in counterintelligence work.

  He finally interrupted her with a smile. “I was hoping to discover more about you as a person...It feels like you’re conducting a security interview.”

  “I apologize for my inquisitive nature. We really did not get to know each other well in Majorca and I suffer from an innate curiosity. You are a fascinating man...I wonder how you came to be in this business.”

  “How does anyone? I drifted through university with no firm goals and graduated with little enthusiasm. My Geopolitical Sciences degree from Georgetown got the attention of the CIA at a job fair and I soon found myself working for them...first as an analyst and later running a safe house in Brussels. I watched agents come and go and knew that field work was my forte. Unfortunately, my supervisor liked the work I did and declined to recommend me.”

  “That was his loss...So, how did you get into field work?”

  “Touring Czechoslovakia a few years later, I struck up a conversation with a member of the Commission.” He chuckled. “...and was naive enough to think it was a chance encounter. It was a few years before I discovered I had actually been recruited.”

  “No animosity?”

  “Absolutely not...It was the best situation for me...I passed along information and began to receive field training. After awhile, I did more work for the Commission than the CIA.”

  “But you’re still with the CIA?”

  “Of course...I now manage all of their European safe houses.”

  “Without being discovered?”

  “There’ve been a few moments when I wondered if I had been unmasked...But, fortunately, no incidents that betrayed me...I hope to maintain a long and profitable relationship with the Americans, so, I must remain vigilant.”

  “You have apparently succeeded.”

  “Thankfully, yes.”

  “Are you originally American?”

  “If you read my file, you know my father was a German citizen and my mother was American. She h
eld a low-level secretarial position at the US Embassy in Munich and he was an electrician who also worked at the Embassy...They met during a lunch break and fell in love. Their marriage was frowned upon and she transferred to a State Department office in Washington with him in tow.”

  “It has a fairy tale ring to it.”

  “Unlike fairy tales, there was no happy ending...They divorced a few years later and my father returned to Munich.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He never felt comfortable in Washington...Couldn’t get into the trade union, which made finding good work difficult. Fortunately, he had taken a leave of absence and was able to return to work in the Munich embassy...I have very fond memories of our visits and feel more at home in Europe.”

  “Are you able to use his position in the Embassy to our benefit?”

  “Not yet...My position with the CIA and his German citizenship mean he is watched closely when he is at work...Most areas require him to have an escort.”

  “Still, there are possibilities...Have you asked him to assist you?”

  “It’s never come up. He knows little of my position with the CIA and nothing of my affiliation with the Commission...I prefer to let him think I work for the US as a monitor of regional conflicts. He suspects my work benefits America to the detriment of his fatherland, so we seldom discuss it.”

  “That may be best. Still, he may prove to be a valuable asset in the future.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Dessert arrived, in the form of raspberry chocolate truffle mousse, and they devoured it with passion.

  CONSORTIUM MISSILE SILO COMPLEX

  NEAR DEER TRAIL, COLORADO

  NINE MONTHS EARLIER

  The Commission sent Ivan Tcharnovsky to supervise the renovation of the underground complex because he got projects done. They did not ask about his methods and preferred not to know.

  When Ivan was not happy, his crew of one hundred and ten skilled and unskilled workers tried their best to avoid his attention.

  “Late again...Where is that idiot Fyodor?” he directed the question to the seven supervisors gathered in his office. Ivan used the PA system to reach every nook and cranny of the immense system of tunnels, silos, and work spaces. “Fyodor Petreschenko...My office...now!”

  Ivan’s office was in the Control Dome, a massive mushroom-shaped two-story structure that rested securely under forty-feet of earth in the middle of the complex. Almost two years of nonstop work had restored it to near-pristine condition. Fresh paint, new carpet and modern furnishings gave it the air of a suburban office building. New heating and air conditioning made it comfortable. Bright lighting and background music made it pleasant.

  It could have been the home office of an insurance company or financial institution. Instead, it would soon be the control center for the Consortium’s North American operations. Canadian offices in a suburban office park that masqueraded as a call center would be moved here, as well as similar offices near Mexico City. A small staff would be left in each location to serve as backup.

  Fyodor timidly knocked on the door of the imposing office on the second floor of the dome. “You wish to see me, Bacc?”

  “No, I do not want to have this talk with you, but your incompetence makes it necessary...Why are silos not dry?”

  “We encounter problems with pumps.”

  “Such as?”

  “I told you in last week’s staff meeting...Pumps sent to us are not adequate...” Sweat beads formed on Fyodor’s head and his voice quivered. He glanced around the room for support and found none. Eyes were averted and nervous tongues licked dry lips.

  “Not adequate?...Do you question judgment of engineers?”

  “No...of course not, Bacc. But there are unforeseen problems...like door seals at top of silo being poor quality...water still enters...Is fault of Chinese factories.”

  “You blame delays on door seals?”

  The smell of the cheap cigars that Ivan smoked nauseated him and Fyodor leaned on a chair for support as he carefully chose his words. “No, but is difficult for pumps to move thirty years of water. Good progress was made, until four of nine pumps failed...also Chinese made. Replacements are ordered, but has been three-month delay.”

  “So, you blame supply system?”

  “Yes...I mean no...Good reasons probably exist for delay...You must know...”

  “What I know is you have failed to properly inform me of delays...”

  “But, Bacc, I tell you every time about problems.”

  “I remember only a few minor comments. However, I am willing to overlook these failures if you give me definite date silos will be dry.”

  “I do not know precise date...I can only speculate...” His knees shook and the room began to spin. “I do not know what I should say.”

  “Say nothing...worthless fool!” Ivan removed a pistol from the top drawer of the massive desk.

  Fyodor’s eyes went wide and the look on his face was a combination of dismay and resignation. “Bacc, I am doing best I can...”

  “Is not sufficient.”

  A single shot into the wooden door frame startled the other men, as well as workers in the open area of the dome. The smell of Cordite hung heavily in the air.

  Fyodor dropped to his knees and sobbed.

  “Get him out of here before he loses control of bladder all over my rug...or worse,” Ivan bellowed. “Now, who shall take his place?”

  There were no volunteers for the thankless task and the smell of fear mixed with lingering fumes from the gunshot.

  Ivan offered a grim smile. “You must understand I do not enjoy being taskmaster. But I have orders from Commission and will not disappoint them. We must proceed with moving command staff here.

  “Living quarters are ready and isolated from silos. But we will not have full capability to communicate until antenna silo is dry. Oleg, you have done most excellent job keeping paint crews on schedule...You must be new silo boss.”

  The middle-aged balding man looked more like a librarian than a master of men.

  Oleg swallowed deeply. “You are, uh, Bacc, and I will do what you wish, but, I have no...’” He cleared his throat. “...experience in matters of such technical nature.”

  “Not to worry...you will have men who know about those things...Your job is to monitor and motivate them...This, I think you can do.”

  “If you think painting crews can work without me...”

  Ivan laughed with no humor and furrowed his brow. “Trained monkey can manage paint crew...Silo crews require supervisor who understands gravity of situation better than your predecessor.”

  He gestured toward the limp former supervisor, who was being helped to his feet by two of the attendees. “Fyodor can replace you on paint crew. If production falls, so will he...down silo. Have I made myself understood?”

  “Yes, Bacc,” Oleg answered.

  “Good! So, is settled...You assume position of silo supervisor as of this moment...with pay and benefits...It would be wise not to disappoint me.”

  Ivan pointed to the visibly-shaken man being helped from the room. “I do not tolerate failure.”

  All eyes followed his and thanked their lucky stars they had not been chosen. Oleg stared at his shoes.

  VISITOR CONTROL CENTER

  CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

  “Okay, everybody has their badges and you’ve been through the metal detectors. Let’s load up in the tour cart and head into the mountain,” Lieutenant Colonel Jim Oglesby directed.

  They stepped outside to a twelve-passenger extended golf cart. It was battery-powered to reduce the load on the air-filtration equipment in the underground facility.

  They found seats and, with a gentle whirring sound, began the trip down the sloping pavement toward the complex. A quick curve around a solid rock outcropping brought them within view of the entrance. Razor-wire topped chain link fences on either side of the road funneled all traffic into the familiar mine-like entrance.

&n
bsp; Letters in the curved arch overhead read, “Cheyenne Mountain Complex.” Two uniformed security men stood next to a guard shack and carefully checked passes against their ID before they were allowed to proceed toward the imposing mountain.

  The transition from bright sunlight to artificial lighting was abrupt. The first thing they saw after their eyes adjusted were twin two-foot thick steel blast doors thirty feet into the opening. They looked like monstrous bank vault doors, with numerous locking cylinders and a complex system of gears and hydraulic actuators.

  Air Force security policemen with automatic weapons stood on either side of the opening and a third guard with a clipboard approached them. “Morning, folks...Welcome to CMC, may I see your passes, please?”

  They took turns holding up laminated ID cards so he could scan the bar code and thumbprint on them. The handheld scanner beeped approval and he waved them forward.

  The shuttle passed through the portal and they entered a new phase of the BlackStar Ops Group, as a semiautonomous unit operating inside another agency’s facility.

  LICIA MARTINEZ’S DORM ROOM

  UNIVERSITY OF COLORADO

  BOULDER, COLORADO

  “I guess being the daughter of a celebrity kinda makes you a target for the press, doesn’t it? Licia said to Star Jackman.

  “Like it’s tattooed on my forehead, or my butt,” she replied. “I was a lot happier before I turned eighteen.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s sort of an unwritten rule that paparazzi leave kids alone...Then it’s open season on you when you reach eighteen.”

  “Really? Didn’t know that...Makes me glad my mom and dad weren’t famous.”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, it has its perks...Getting a room at a sold-out hotel...Going backstage at concerts, or boarding flights before other passengers...Things like that. Problem is, I don’t care about most of that. I mean, I have friends who take advantage of it all the time. You know, the ones who like seeing their pictures on TV or in magazines. I like to stay out of sight whenever I can.”

  “So, you’re not the party animal the press makes you out to be?”

  “Not really...I hang out with my friends and go to parties, but don’t like to drink and never, ever, do drugs...Tabloids just make up crap.”