The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen Frey

  Coleman smiled politely despite his irritation at so obvious an analysis as well as use of the word “we.” He could not argue the fact that they had a large stake in what was going on, but it was his sweat staining the campaign trail. “No, we can’t.” Coleman tugged at the sleeves of his suit coat. He was tall and thin, with a trustworthy face and a strong natural presence. Handsome, but not obnoxiously so. “I think it’s important to remember that just a month and a half ago, at the end of July, we trailed Walker by five points. We’ve gained nine points in only forty-five days.” Coleman was careful not to allow irritation to leak into his tone. This was a beauty contest, and they could kick him out of the show at any time, so he would mind his manners. Swallowing his pride was a small price to pay for admission into this circle. “The trend is excellent. We have significant momentum. I believe by this time next month, for all intents and purposes, Walker’s Senate seat will be mine. His campaign will be dead in the water. The November election will be only a formality.”

  “You and your campaign staff have performed admirably, Elbridge.” The chairman sensed Coleman’s slight vexation. “We do have momentum. We simply want to make certain it is maintained at its current level. We must finish strong. We all have a great deal riding on this.”

  “Of course.” Coleman nodded deferentially to the chairman. He appreciated the compliment regarding his and his staff’s performance. He hesitated, looking at each of the members in turn before speaking again. “We are running very strong and Malcolm Walker is running scared. That’s the bottom line.”

  “Fine, fine.” The chairman was obviously pleased. “And you have plenty of money left, Elbridge?”

  “My campaign treasurer assures me that the after-tax proceeds from the initial public offering of Coleman Technology will be more than sufficient to fund the remainder of the campaign. And, of course, forty percent of the stock remains in my name. We could liquidate some of that in a private sale at any time if we need more money for the campaign.”

  “Very good,” the chairman said. Everything was proceeding as planned. “That will be all.”

  Coleman recognized his cue to exit. He stood up, nodded respectfully at each of the members, and walked toward the door.

  “Elbridge,” the chairman called quietly.

  “Yes?” Coleman hesitated for a moment.

  “Please tell your guide to use the Potomac exit.”

  “All right.” He turned, moved through the door, and was gone.

  The chairman swiveled around to face the others. “I think we should feel very good about Mr. Coleman’s campaign. As we all know, there are never any sure things in life, but this would appear to be as close to a lock as possible. We have two other campaigns in preliminary stages out West, but I don’t think we’ll ultimately need them.”

  “We should turn up the heat on the other front too,” a voice broke in quickly. “We need to make absolutely certain we win this election. We’ve set this thing up and spent a great deal of money on it—let’s use it.”

  The chairman nodded. “I agree. I’ve waited on that because it’s our ace in the hole and I didn’t want to use it too early. But I think you’re right. It’s time. We’re close enough to the election now that Walker wouldn’t be able to mount an effective counteroffensive. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “Thank you,” said the member who had made the suggestion, acknowledging the chairman’s assistance.

  “There is something you need to know.” The chairman’s voice became serious. The others recognized the tone and were instantly uneasy. “We’ve had a small security leak.” All eyes were suddenly riveted to the chairman’s. “As you are aware, two nights ago we took care of our problem at the IRS. Gordon Roth silenced Neil Robinson. Permanently. As it turns out, Robinson’s suspicions about Elbridge Coleman’s campaign were even more accurate than we had originally believed. We should be elated that Robinson is now out of the picture.” The chairman paused. “Unfortunately, Robinson was more resourceful than we had anticipated.” The man knew this little missile was going to cause a nuclear explosion. “I think Robinson was actually able to pass his suspicions about Coleman on to someone after Roth killed him.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” one of the others asked. “How could Robinson pass on suspicions after he was killed?”

  “A few days ago, perhaps in response to Mr. Roth’s repeated telephone contact, Robinson prepared a short memorandum briefly referencing his suspicions about an unidentified U.S. Senate race. It was stored on his hard drive.”

  “But I thought we had gotten to his office before anyone else did. I thought we had confiscated his computer’s hard drive and all his disks.”

  The chairman nodded. “We were there the morning after his death. Unfortunately it didn’t matter. Robinson used an option in the IRS branch’s local area network system to send the memo from his computer to another one on a delayed basis. If he didn’t disengage the option within a specific number of hours of logging off his computer, the memo would be sent automatically. Until yesterday when he arrived in the morning he shut off the time delay release simply by logging on. Obviously, yesterday morning he didn’t log on, so the memorandum was automatically sent out to its predetermined destination. We got there, but too late to stop the memo from going out.”

  “So then we should be able to follow the electronic path, shouldn’t we? We’ll simply determine the memo’s destination and take appropriate action immediately.”

  “It isn’t that simple,” the chairman cautioned. “Robinson had arranged for the memo to be sent to an IRS central processing unit in Florida first, then had the CPU send it back to Baltimore.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “To hide the identity of the receiving party, I assume. If he had sent the memo directly through the branch’s local system, it would have been easy to pinpoint which personal computer it went to. But by sending the memo to the CPU in Florida first and then back to Baltimore, he was able to cover his tracks. We were able to determine which cell the memo was sent to, thanks to a systems person at the IRS who is on our payroll. However, the CPU erased the link from the cell to the specific receiving computer.”

  “What’s a cell?”

  “A group of personal computers, a department.”

  “So which department was it sent to?”

  “The revenue agents.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Then we need to check each of their computers.”

  “We already have. No results. Whoever received the memo was smart enough to erase it from his or her computer memory and not make a copy. We checked the printer logs as well.”

  “How do we know that what Robinson sent by computer had anything to do with the Coleman campaign?”

  “We don’t,” the chairman responded. “I’m guessing, but it’s a damn good guess. We found a hard copy of an unaddressed memo among Robinson’s possessions stating that if the party to whom it was sent was reading it, something had happened to him. It asked for the person’s help, then gave directions to a small house he owned on the Severn River. In the house there was to be a file of detailed information about a Senate race he believed was being manipulated. And thanks to the conversation Roth had with Robinson at the Hyatt, we all know which campaign Robinson was referring to. I strongly believe it was this same memo that was sent electronically the morning after his death.”

  “Where was the hard copy of the memo found?”

  “In the suit Robinson was wearing when he died.”

  “What?” The members’ anxiety was instantly heightened.

  “Yes. It was as if Robinson was thinking of giving the memo to someone before he met Gordon Roth at the Hyatt. A coroner at the city morgue found the memo in Robinson’s coat pocket. Fortunately we were able to get to the hard copy before anyone else did. We got to the coroner too. Just to be careful.” It was a damn good thing Roth was so efficie
nt.

  “Have we retrieved the file from the Severn house?”

  “We tried, but someone beat us to it. Almost certainly the same person who received the delayed computer correspondence from Robinson.”

  “So what the hell are we going to do?”

  The chairman brought his hands together. “Systematically figure out which of the twenty-two revenue agents received the correspondence from Robinson, then take the appropriate action. And pray to God we find that person before that person finds us.” His expression brightened. “Fortunately, we have the means to do so. Whoever beat us to the file at the Severn house inadvertently left us a trail. One we can follow quickly. And I assure you we will.”

  The others nodded their assent.

  The chairman glanced up. “As you’ve no doubt noticed we are missing a few members this evening. They are at Area 51. Keep your fingers crossed that all goes well tonight with the A-100.”

  Chapter 10

  The A-100 prototype climbed sharply from Area 51 into the darkness just settling over Nevada. The plane was commencing its fourth and final scheduled test flight. Contingent upon successful completion of this last mission, the defense firm that had secretly been awarded the huge contract could begin full-scale production of the new Navy fighter-bomber immediately. It was a contract worth almost $150 billion over the next seven years and would make the firm one of the biggest in the defense industry.

  The landing gear retracted into the jet’s fuselage as tires lost contact with pavement, creating the perfect attack profile—low and practically devoid of right angles. Sleek configuration, combined with the unique composite skin of the craft and the jamming devices on board, made the A-100 almost immune to enemy radar detection.

  As he felt the familiar thud of doors closing over landing gear, the aviator relaxed into his seat and began his first in-flight safety and security check. It would be a constant process until he had touched down at the target two hundred miles to the north.

  Commander Richard Pierce enjoyed a reputation as one of the most experienced fixed-wing pilots in the entire United States Navy. He was as calm and cool under pressure as they came. But despite his glittering combat record and many test-flight hours at the controls of this and other prototypes, he had been anxious all day. This particular plane was worth almost $500 million, and, more important, represented the Navy’s attempt to reestablish itself as an equal and indispensable member of the armed services triumvirate.

  Without the “black wing”—as Pierce had nicknamed the A-100—the Navy might ultimately be forced to cede deep-strike missions to stealth bombers of the Air Force, an action that could make $5 billion aircraft carriers vulnerable to reelection-minded politicians searching for ways to cut federal spending and earn points with their constituents—ways that could have a domino effect in terms of new destroyers, new cruisers, and, most important, budget dollars.

  The Navy is comprised of three parts, subsurface, surface, and aviation—in which carriers are included. Air Force and Army brass constantly questioned the need for the surface and aviation components of the Navy given the high-tech abilities of guided missiles. They argued that surface vessels and aircraft carriers were easy targets and therefore obsolete, hoping to claim a huge piece of the $90 billion Navy budget for themselves if it became available as a result of their backroom maneuvers. Without the A-100 the Navy might become only a bit player in the $300-billion-a- year defense game. With it, the Navy could justify its surface and aviation operations and would be back on equal footing with the Air Force and the Army.

  Pierce guided the A-100 into a gentle five-degree turn to north. It was such an important flight, but only a few people in the world even knew of the plane’s existence. Of course, that was always the way with black programs. Everything was top-secret. The contractor’s civilian employees flew into and out of Area 51—the isolated Nevada government installation—on planes with windows covered black so passengers couldn’t see out. Everyone was searched entering and exiting the installation’s massive hangar housing the five prototypes. And people with knowledge of the A-100 black project faced ten years of solitary confinement at Leavenworth if convicted of simply acknowledging the project’s existence to an individual without A-100 clearance.

  It was that way for everyone involved. Pierce’s wife had no idea where he was. And if today’s flight ended in disaster, which was always a possibility given the nature of the business, the coffin his wife buried would be empty—though she would never know that. There was always the possibility that a piece of the plane’s top-secret composite skin could become lodged in Pierce’s remains for an international grave robber to discover and take back to his government.

  But the personal sacrifices didn’t bother Pierce at all. He was totally committed to the A-100, to its place in naval history, and to the leaders managing the project. And he would do anything they asked to make certain the plane was brought to full-scale production as quickly as possible. Anything.

  Thirty-seven feet long with a seventy-foot wingspan, the A-100 was really nothing but a giant wing, an aerodynamic marvel. Upon design and test completion it was to replace the thirty-five-year-old A-6 Intruder as the Navy’s carrier-based workhorse fighter-bomber. The A-6 had been in service since Vietnam, but political wrangling and tight budgets had inhibited the Navy brass from replacing it.

  Pierce glanced out the left window at the wing sweeping back away from him. It was a beautiful plane. Responsive, powerful, and practically invisible, it was the finest machine he had ever flown.

  He scanned the computer-generated topographical map on which was superimposed an outline of the aircraft, then demagnified the image on the screen several times—decreasing the size of the plane’s outline and increasing the scope of the map—and located the runway from which he had just taken off. Four minutes into the flight and he was already fifty miles out.

  Pierce increased the scope of the map again and searched for the target—a “carrier box” located on a remote runway in the middle of the Nevada desert where the Navy simulated at-sea landings and takeoffs. The carrier box was a rectangle of white lights positioned on the runway to match the dimensions of an aircraft carrier deck. The box was complete with arresting cables and a catapult.

  Pierce located the carrier box quickly. It was slightly over 150 miles out to the north.

  The objective of this last mission was simple: to simulate an at-sea landing and takeoff, two of the most dangerous maneuvers Navy pilots had to execute on a regular basis. Land the A-100 within the white lights, then take off via catapult. If he could do so, the contractor could begin production of the plane immediately. And the admirals could kiss his ass from now to eternity.

  He glanced at the box on the screen once more, then checked in with Carrier Air Traffic Control for the first time. “Approach, Tiger six two three.” In order to limit the number of eyes watching the flight, the CATC would act as Strike, Marshal, and Air Boss—the progression of controllers typically responsible for guiding a jet home after its cycle of operations. Black programs required this kind of job economy to ensure secrecy. “How copy?”

  “Loud and clear, Tiger six two three.” The CATC’s response was terse.

  Pierce heard tension in the CATC’s voice. Christ, the higher-ups were probably crowded around the poor bastard, making him nervous as hell. Admiral Cowen, Chief of Naval Operations, William Harcourt, Secretary of the Navy, and Jack Finnerty, president of GEA—the defense firm responsible for manufacturing the A-100. All sweating bullets at the command center overlooking the carrier box as they waited for Pierce to guide their little $500 million piece of hardware safely onto the runway in the middle of nowhere.

  “Request permission to land.”

  “Tiger six two three, cleared to land. But could you do me a favor first and turn on your beacon? With all that radar avoidance equipment on board, your damn plane’s a bitch to find, and there are people here who’d really like to know where you are right
now.”

  “Roger.” Commander Pierce flipped on the beacon. The A-100 would now emit a clear, constant pulse, enabling the CATC’s radar to locate him easily. He chuckled to himself. The radar-avoidance equipment on this plane was a thing of beauty. Pilots would be able to fly into downtown enemy cities, drop payloads, and be gone before anyone knew what had happened. “My ETA”—he paused to check the computer—“is eleven minutes and twenty-two seconds.”

  “Report, see you at ten.” The CATC was requesting another check at ten miles out.

  “Wilco,” Pierce replied. It was the standard naval aviation response, short for “will comply.”

  At ten miles out, Pierce checked in again, as the CATC had requested. Through the cockpit glass, Pierce eyed the carrier box, now plainly visible through the darkness, the tiny white landing lights perfectly replicating the dimensions of a carrier deck. At this point the box was five thousand feet below him and ten miles to the north.

  “Cleared to land.”

  Pierce descended quickly to a thousand feet, leveled off briefly as he “let down” into pattern, and lined up into a course that would take him due north to the box. After a few moments he throttled back to 350 knots and descended to eight hundred feet.

  Two miles south of the carrier box, Pierce slowed to gear down speed—250 knots—then dropped the landing gear. Instantly the cockpit rocked against the air turbulence generated by the now less than aerodynamically efficient shape of the plane.

  At a mile south of the carrier box and six hundred feet above the sand, Pierce adjusted the A-100’s course one more time and rolled into long final. Now the plane was perfectly aligned with the runway lights running down the center of the box.

  Pierce gripped the stick tightly. Landings were nothing but controlled crashes. And no matter how many times you executed them, they were still nerve-racking experiences, especially with the fate of the entire Navy in your hands.

  Moments later he was a half mile south of the carrier box. Now he had descended to three hundred feet and slowed to 150 knots. Much slower than just seconds ago, but still incredibly fast to try to stop forty thousand pounds of aircraft in such a short space.