by Jim DeFelice
“That’s basically what I saw,” said Howe when he finished. “I didn’t get that close to them.”
“But they were definitely there?”
“Yes, sir, they were.”
Wu nodded. He waited as the waitress arrived with his coffee, then took a few sips before continuing.
“The Koreans aren’t known to have any sort of craft like this,” said Wu.
“So I’ve heard.”
“You didn’t take a picture or anything?”
Howe laughed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how much you know about what I was doing there and what happened.”
“I had to ask.”
“I’m sure of what I saw, but only of what I saw. Whether those aircraft were real airplanes, UAVs, whatever, I don’t know. I talked to someone at NADT who made some guesses about how they’d be powered and that sort of thing. I can have him get in touch with you tomorrow.”
“That’s all right. I think really I have enough.” Wu sipped his coffee. Obviously he had access to any number of experts. “One last question: Would you agree that these aircraft should be secured and examined?”
“Absolutely.”
The CIA analyst nodded, then got up and reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“I got it,” Howe told him. He stayed in the booth for a while, sipping his coffee and looking at a real estate magazine he’d grabbed on the way in. He left the waitress a nice tip and headed back to the motel.
Chapter
17
It was Thursday, and Blitz and the CIA director always met for breakfast. The Korean crisis didn’t change that, but it did make them move up their schedule and change the location of their meeting: Blitz found himself walking up the path to the director’s home at five in the morning, accompanied by an aide and two NSC security escorts, Army Delta troopers in plainclothes on special assignment. He was met at the door by one of the director’s own security people. Inside the kitchen he found the director’s wife, Jean, presiding over a pan of home fries and another of sausage.
“Well, if I had known we would have such a good cook on duty, I would ask to meet here more often,” said Blitz.
Jean gave him a good-natured but tired smile, then asked what sort of omelet he wanted.
“I told you, load him up with cholesterol,” said Jack Anthony, entering from upstairs. He smelled as if he’d just come from the shower, though he was fully dressed and looked considerably more awake than his wife.
“Would you like blue cheese and mushrooms?” asked Jean.
“That would be fantastic,” said Blitz. He’d meant the compliment. This was shaping up as the best meal he’d had in weeks.
Blitz and Anthony had a very complicated relationship. Professionally, the men couldn’t stand each other: They were bitter rivals for power and influence, and they had come to their positions by entirely different paths. Blitz had been in and out of government and academia, and while he was acknowledged as one of the country’s foremost experts on international relations, he had been appointed largely because of his long-term relationship with the President. Anthony, on the other hand, had spent his entire adult life working for the government. Much of that experience had come at the CIA, but he had also worked for the NSA, the Pentagon, and briefly the State Department. He professed to be apolitical, though his congressional connections were strongest with members of the other party.
Personally, though, the two men got along very well. Not only were they baseball fanatics, they were both Yankee fans—a minority in Washington, D.C. Anthony had been a guest speaker for Blitz several times when Blitz was teaching, and had even informally reviewed one of Blitz’s books before it was published, giving him a dozen pages of useful notes.
“Let’s talk for a minute,” said Jack, pointing Blitz toward the nearby family room. The oldest Anthony daughter lived nearby and had recently had a baby; a playpen was set up in the corner of the room. Blitz sat on the sofa next to it, listening as Anthony quickly ran down the important points in a CIA analysis of unaccounted-for North Korean weapons. The report would be delivered as an unofficial memorandum later that morning to the NSC, which would use it to make a recommendation on further Korean operations.
“We’ve now accounted for all but one hundred of the fuel tubes from the reactor,” said the CIA head, focusing on the most important finding.
“A hundred? That’s a hell of a lot to lose.”
“We haven’t lost them, we just haven’t found them yet,” said Anthony. “That’s a big difference. We’re not even one hundred percent sure they’re gone.”
The material had been at Yonbyon, the nuclear facility roughly sixty miles north of the capital. A large number of the fuel rods had been recovered or accounted for, but even a few dozen could present a serious threat. While processing their fuel into a bomb would probably be beyond the capabilities of all but a handful of governments, the material could be used in a so-called dirty weapon, spreading radioactive waste in a high-value site.
“These weren’t used for another bomb?” Blitz asked.
“We haven’t completely ruled that out,” said Anthony. “But we have a handle on the bomb facilities and it seems unlikely.”
“Accounting for the fuel tubes has to have the highest priority,” said Blitz.
“Agreed.”
They broke for breakfast, the conversation turning to the new grandchild. Jane stayed for a few minutes, then excused herself to go take a shower. When she was gone, Anthony and Blitz resumed their discussion of what to do next in North Korea. All of the ballistic missile sites had been secured, and separate teams had already completed preliminary reports on the technology. According to Anthony, there were no surprises: American intelligence had already done a decent job of psyching out the capabilities of the weapons.
The Koreans’ small store of cruise missiles—primitive weapons based on a Russian antiship missile—were all accounted for. Several stores of chemical weapons that had not been listed on reports prior to the coup had been found. As of yet, records to check the inventories had not been located.
“What about the E-bomb?” Blitz asked.
Anthony shook his head. “Still looks like they snookered us on that. Two members of the Korean security police were arrested in Japan last night, and it’s possible one of them was Colonel Howe’s passenger.”
“I doubt that,” said Blitz. “Too low-level.” His main candidate was the head of the DPRK intelligence, who had not been heard from since twelve hours before the coup. “Colonel Howe mentioned seeing some UAVs, or possible UAVs,” added Blitz, remembering his conversation with Howe.
“One of our people checked into that. He’s recommending a check at the site.”
“As a CIA operation?”
“We don’t have the resources at the moment,” admitted Anthony.
“Perhaps we should run a military operation through the NSC,” suggested Blitz.
“Might be an idea, if you can arrange it.” Anthony took a sip of his coffee. “Is Howe going over to NADT?”
“He’s the top candidate,” said Blitz.
“I wonder if Howe is the right man for the job,” said Anthony. “He’s an outsider to Washington. And he was only a colonel.”
“He’s had a good deal of experience. He was responsible for the Velociraptors and has worked with NADT.”
Blitz wondered if Anthony saw Howe as a potential political threat. The CIA did not deal with NADT on any sort of regular basis, but whoever took over as head of the agency would be at least a potential power in Washington.
“Is there something else about Colonel Howe I should know?” Blitz asked.
Anthony shrugged. “We’re initiating an intelligence review in connection with the Korean operation.”
“How does that affect him?”
“Just that he was part of it.”
“He had nothing to do with the intelligence,” said Blitz.
“It’s odd that he was connected with that, and w
ith a plot to steal one of America’s most advanced weapons.”
“He’s not connected at all,” said Blitz.
The matter was of more than passing importance, since it represented a potential scandal: He could just imagine what an unfriendly congressional committee would do with the information that the U.S. government had helped a Korean villain escape. Howe’s involvement could be especially problematic; Blitz wondered whether his appointment should be delayed until they had captured the man.
The doorbell rang: Anthony’s driver and aides had arrived. The conversation turned to more generic, benign matters. Blitz fretted about what to do. A review of the Korean matter could easily take months.
A way would have to be found to shortcut the process. In the meantime…
In the meantime?
One of the aides had the morning news summary with him, a compilation of important items prepared for the President and other top members of the administration. For a change, the item leading the roundup wasn’t from Korea: A joint task force headed by Homeland Security and the DIA, with help from the New York City Police Department and a long list of others, had found a cache of sarin gas in a warehouse on Staten Island.
Anthony pointed out that the discovery had been made by the group originally put together to investigate the E-bomb rumor.
“So it wasn’t a total waste after all,” he said. “Keystone Kops stumbled onto the real thing.”
Blitz made a mental note to call Jack Hunter at the FBI and congratulate him—and see whether the connection was just a coincidence as it appeared.
As the others went out to the car, Anthony held Blitz back for a second.
“About that review,” said Anthony. “We’ve suspended security clearances for everyone involved.”
“What?” said Blitz.
“It’s routine.”
“Like hell,” said Blitz.
“Don’t get mad, Professor. The review isn’t going to take that long.”
“Are you trying to torpedo Howe’s appointment?”
“Absolutely not.”
Blitz knew a lie when he heard one, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.
Chapter
18
Fisher had a prime seat for the press conference: back near the coffee and doughnuts laid out for the media types. That meant he couldn’t get a good view of Macklin and Kowalski as they smiled for the cameras: another plus.
It was a crowded podium. Besides Macklin and Kowalski, the city mayor, the police commissioner, the local federal attorney, the governor, and the district attorney from Staten Island were all on the stage at Gracie Mansion in Manhattan to announce the triumph. So much for setting up a sting.
They had, at least, made an arrest on the person who had leased the warehouse. He was an Egyptian émigré who’d been in America for four years. His name was Said Ahmet, and he claimed he had rented it to people who wanted to store auto parts. The story was so lame that Fisher was tempted to believe it. In the meantime, warrants had been arranged for several business associates of Ahmet, and city detectives were out looking for them. Faud, who had not been connected to the warehouse except by Fisher’s roundabout logic, was now on a list of people to be apprehended but his name and description were not being released to the press.
If Fisher had had his way, nothing would be released to the press, and there would be no press conference at all. But at least the cheese blintzes were good.
“Andy, it’s been great working with you,” said Macklin after the TV cameras shut down.
“You going on vacation?”
“No. The case is closed.”
“No it’s not,” said Fisher.
“Well, yeah, we have to wrap up loose ends and such. But Jeez, Fisher, don’t you ever relax? We celebrate today, take off a long weekend, then come back and kick down doors Monday.”
“Whose doors?”
“It’s a figure of speech. Besides, you’re out of here.”
“How do you mean that?” asked Fisher, shaking out a fresh cigarette.
“Your assignment only lasted until we broke the case. I’m supposed to give you back to the Bureau as soon as I can. The case is closed. We’ll be turning it all over to the U.S. attorney anyway and disbanding the task force. So thanks.” He held out his hand.
“Who says we broke the case?”
Macklin just about crossed his eyes.
“We still don’t understand the connection between the E-bomb and the sarin gas.” Fisher hated stating the obvious, even to a fellow investigator, but there seemed no other choice.
“There is no connection. God, you’re the guy who figured that out. You said—”
“That alone ought to be enough to bother you,” said Fisher, walking away.
Part Four
Heroes and
Other Players
Chapter
1
Tyler tapped the keys of his laptop, jotting the notes about the performance of the different weapons systems as the major assigned to brief him continued. Though he wasn’t here to evaluate weapons or the unit’s performance, Tyler let the officer vent. He was complaining about the failure of the coordinated information system that was supposed to provide battlefield commanders with coordinated real-time information from a variety of sources. Potentially revolutionary in design—in theory, the smallest fighting unit would have access to battlefield intelligence that only a few years before would have been hard to get at any level—the system was prone to failure. In place of real-time topographic maps with enemy positions, soldiers had found blue screens on the vehicle displays, laptops, and handheld computers they had carried into battle.
The NCOs were especially bitter, noted the major, as they’d been complaining for months about the systems. Tyler knew that while the sergeants generally ran the show, the upper-level people rarely paid enough attention to their advice. As a captain, he’d worked hard to be different; he knew a lot of other officers—this major undoubtedly was one—did, too, but the split between enlisted and officer was somehow ingrained in the culture.
Somers seemed amused by the failures of technology. He sat back on his metal folding chair, finger against his lip as he listened.
“The key point here,” said the historian as the major’s tirade finally ran out of steam, “is that your people found suitable work-arounds at the crisis point. Which to my mind illustrates their resourcefulness and training. It requires a supportive command structure as well. So, despite the technology screwups, once more the human factor came to the fore.”
“Sure. Of course,” said the major.
“The NCOs and the officers did well despite having one hand tied behind their backs with the technology screwups.”
“And the men.”
“Absolutely,” said the officer.
Had the praise come from Tyler, it would have probably been dismissed as ass-kissing, or worse. But Somers made it sound more important and somehow more genuine. He was right, of course: The fact of the matter was that the Army had done well not because of its cutting-edge doodads—they’d screwed up—but because of its training and a command structure and culture that emphasized personal initiative in combat.
As they turned to the matter at hand, the major proved insightful and well connected; he picked up a phone and arranged a helicopter for a tour of several units to the east in the countryside.
“Did you butter him up on purpose?” Tyler asked Somers as they walked toward the chopper later.
“Butter him up?” Somers made a face. “Sometimes it’s important to state the obvious. We lose track of it. This was the sort of advance that will be studied for a long time. Partly it succeeded because it was made against a demoralized, ill-equipped army that had no reason to fight. But such armies have surprised generals for centuries. Napoléon, Guderian, Burgoyne. Studying failure is instructive,” added the historian as he pulled himself up into the Blackhawk. “The technology has to be straightened out. But we can
’t let the shortcomings obscure the successes.”
Even from the helicopter, the poverty of the North Koreans was clear. Roads were rutted and empty, houses in the countryside were little more than shacks and often in disrepair. The country’s abject state was almost a caricature. How, Tyler wondered, could a ruler so badly fail his people?
The translator, a South Korean on loan to the group, was somewhat prejudiced against the peasants they spoke to after putting down at a forward outpost. He shook his head as he explained that the people had no idea what they would eat when winter came.
“Ask if they have guns,” said Tyler.
The translator practically rolled his eyes, but he asked. There had been rumors that the government had handed out weapons shortly before its fall, but these seemed false, at least here.
“We do not need guns, we need rice,” said one old man when they asked.
They made four stops, spending much of the day talking to anyone they could find: American officers, sergeants, privates, and any North Korean brave enough to come near.
“They think of Americans as devils and look for your tails,” said the translator at one point. He didn’t seem to be joking.
“So?” asked Somers as they trudged toward their temporary headquarters at the end of the day. “What have we learned?”
Tyler smiled at the academic’s pedantic style but played along. “That North Korea is a hellhole and that we have to get these people food fast.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Can they mount a guerrilla campaign?”
“Some of the units are still intact. There are still weapons. But the population won’t support it.”
“I agree,” said Somers. “What’s really interesting, though, is the animosity between North and South,” Somers continued. “You saw our translator, and the people’s reactions to him. They thought he was arrogant.”
“Sure,” said Tyler.
“You don’t think that’s important?”
