Li Yong would tell him just enough to be credible. Not nearly so much as to show his intentional reduction of the attack’s severity. Li Yong walked the Chairman through the special airplane sale between LTS and InterTrans Airlines. He carefully brought him to the point where Unit 61398 controlled the airliner while in flight.
“So far your plan has killed a mere eight people.”
Li Yong soothed, “No one could have known the USS Reagan and its carrier battle group would be in the vicinity of the airliner ditching.” But I knew it. And I saved 147 lives. You know this?
“The next attacks will have the intended effect?”
One last time to reason with this lunatic. “Sir, even though this latest attack had no mass casualties, look at the result. There is now fear of American air travel. Distrust even—”
“The enemy understands just one thing!” the Chairman’s shout thundered through the telephone. “Body count.” The man was beside himself. But his voice turned into a low growl, “The higher the body count, the greater their terror and the faster their surrender.”
Last chance. “Sir, it took me the entire four years of development time to figure this out.” Li Yong’s mind raced. America is a wealthy country. One willing to replace physical assets. Maybe, they complain to the United Nations. But not much else. Li Yong had experienced American patriotism first hand. If too many Americans are killed, they will counter with everything they have. They would sink every ship in our Navy and torpedo each of our submarines. They would blow every one of our fighter jets and bombers out of the sky. Their cruise missiles would surgically target and kill our leaders. All this would destroy the Chinese people we serve.
“Sir, proving we control their transport infrastructure but have so far held that power in reserve is a more formidable tool than bringing down so many passenger jets.”
Li Yong heard the Chairman’s guttural voice through the telephone. “Colonel, have you talked to your parents today? Are they healthy and well? Do you wish them to remain so? You know this?”
* * *
Chapter 16
“Turn left please, sir,” the Marine gunnery sergeant said.
“We’re not going to the Oval?” Jack asked. Helen was right beside him.
“Orders to divert.”
“We’re going directly to the Sit Room,” Jack said.
Gallagher whispered to Helen, “My first time in the White House and I’m going to the Situation Room?”
“Impressive, huh,” answered Helen. “Prepare for shock and awe, Mr. Gallagher.”
The Gunnery Sergeant stopped short and held up a white-gloved hand. The party stood before a simple, unmarked door. Jack noticed that he gave a quick glance up and down the hallway. Two dark-suited Secret Service agents approached them from opposite ends of the hall. “This is as far as I take your party, Mr. Schilling.” The Marine stood with his back toward the single door, legs comfortably spread, and hands clasped behind his back. He waited for the Secret Service agents to arrive.
“Mr. Schilling, Ms.Taiko, and Mr. Gallagher,” one of the agents said, “I will escort your party the rest of the way.” He keyed the code into an electronic pad discreetly set into the wall. The simple, unmarked door unlatched with an electronic buzz. The agent opened the door, revealing a metal elevator door of brushed brass. He pressed the call button and the door slid open. “This way, please,” he said.
Jack placed a hand lightly on Gallagher’s shoulder. “Some very high-ranking people are going to be asking you all sorts of questions,” he said as the elevator dived four stories down to the White House sub-basement.
“If there were ever an order to launch an attack,” Jack said, “it would likely come from this complex, using this equipment here in the operations center.
“This way, please,” said the agent. He walked them into the largest of the Situation Room’s three conference rooms.
“Helen!” came a voice familiar to millions of Americans. The President rose from his customary place at the head of the long, walnut table. There sat a telephone console with a complex of red, green, and blue buttons, a computer screen, a keyboard, and a mouse. There were two large screen monitors set into the wall and another two smaller pop-up monitors that rose from the credenza behind the President’s chair. “I swear you look better than anyone has a right to at 2:00 in the morning,” he said lightly kissing her cheek. “I saw you on the cover of this week’s Forbes. Congratulations. Though that article said more than I’d have liked about you, Jack and his military career, and both of your relationships with my Whitehouse.” Then he turned to Jack. “Wish I was seeing my god-son under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Maybe a family barbeque on the South Lawn, sir?” Jack said as he received the President’s brief hug.
“Sounds pretty good about now.” The President held out his hand. “Alan Monroe, Mr. Gallagher. Thank you for joining us on such short notice.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. President,” Gallagher said. “Though I’m not sure how my boss will feel about my being here instead of him.”
The President gave a short laugh. “Already spoke with him. Turns out he’s in Hawaii right now anyway. Speaking at the Asian-Pacific summit on Airline Safety Management Systems. I requested his best-qualified investigator on the Elkhart and the Los Angeles crashes. You were his first and only choice. I’m afraid you’re in the hot seat tonight, Tom.” The President extended a hand to the only vacant seat at the table.
Helen and Jack took seats behind the table, against the wall. Jack recognized the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the unmistakable, barrel-chested Commandant General of the Marine Corp. The others were the chiefs of the Navy, Army, and Air Force. Jack whispered into Helen’s ear, “Look at all that fruit salad—the colorful battle ribbons pinned to these guys’ chests. And that gold braid running halfway up their sleeves. There’s more brass in this room than on all the ships at sea.” He guessed the suits around the table were likely the Directors of the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security. The only other woman was the President’s National Security Advisor.
“Not one of them looks happy to be here,” Helen whispered back. “What’s with the Commandant General and that plastic bottle of Hershey’s chocolate sauce he keeps swilling?”
“He thinks it keeps everyone off balance,” Jack said. “I mean who drinks chocolate sauce straight? But actually, it’s just tap water. Everyone’s wondering what’s going on. The President summoning them in the middle of the night and them not knowing why must worry the hell out of them.” Jack’s stomach remained clenched knowing the reason.
“Thanks everyone for coming at such a late hour,” the President began. “I’ll start off. Tom, as regimented as this probably looks to you, my rule around this table is to keep things as informal as possible. Anyone who wants to say something just jumps in. I’ve found that’s the only way we can deal with the magnitude of the information and the consequences of the decisions made around this table. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Gallagher responded.
“So, bring us up to speed on NTSB’s investigations of these two crashes.”
Gallagher leaned forward. “We’re running down all avenues of possible causes.” Gallagher then briefed these powerful men and one woman on cabin pressurization as the focus of his investigation for both crashes.
The Commandant of the Marine Corp said, “Do you think that’s what killed the pilots?”
“Sir, we know that’s what killed the pilots in both accidents.”
“How so?” Homeland Security asked. “You just said these investigations are ongoing.”
Gallagher’s voice took on the hard edge of authority as he moved the briefing into the area he knew better than anyone in the world. He took his time explaining the proof of deliberate human sabotage that brought down the Boeing Business Jet in Elkhart, Indiana.
The Director of the FBI said, “If you’re right, Mr. Gallagher, this is a criminal case and belongs in my shop.”
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“I am right, Mr. Director. NTSB will provide any technical assistance we can to the FBI.”
“Not so fast,” the Director of Homeland Security objected. “Sounds like we have two similar incidents likely perpetrated by the same group. This is the purview of Homeland Security. We’ll take the lead here—”
“They’re unlikely to be homegrown terrorists,” the Director of the CIA said. “If they’re from outside the US borders, that’s in our wheelhouse. CIA takes over.”
Jack stepped in and told them about the aircraft mechanic at Panda Aviation. “The mechanic’s supervisor—the actual perp—is now in Hong Kong and immune from extradition.”
“See?” CIA said. “International. We’re in charge here.”
“This is not news to me,” the President intervened. His tone was that of a teacher arbitrating a schoolyard brawl. “Jack and Helen have kept me in the loop over the last few days. What else have you uncovered that we don’t know about?”
Gallagher carefully briefed them on the results of the cockpit voice and data recorders. He spoke uninterrupted for twenty minutes.
The Commandant of the Marine Corp finally stopped him. “So the flight deck’s pressure system was turned off by remote control. I get that. What I don’t yet understand is what in Sam Hell was LTS doing with a remote flight control system on a commercial jet carrying passengers? This is looking more and more like some gigantic clusterfuck.” He took another sip from the Hershey’s bottle.
“Correct, General,” Gallagher said. “FAA has not yet approved any such systems for commercial flights.”
The Marine General nodded his great bald head. “So whoever the hell did this, had to hack into LTS’ remote ground control system and turn off the flight deck cabin pressure system. Christ. Doesn’t LTS have any computer firewalls over there?”
“They do,” said Helen, speaking for the first time. “Very sophisticated firewalls. Whoever did this has to be among the best in the world at slipping into a computer system, doing their work and then leaving without a trace.”
The President glanced at his watch. It showed 3:30 a.m. “I’m not as computer savvy as most of you, but I don’t imagine there’s any way to trace the origin of their entry?”
Helen said, “Sir, the FBI’s computer forensics group traced the hack to Lamp Post Pizza Corporation—a small franchise operation in Garden Grove, California. From there, the trace went cold. The FBI did a door knock in the middle of the night and hauled the CEO down to the Los Angeles Federal building in his pajamas.”
An embarrassed scowl crossed the FBI Director’s face, “Not a damn thing about my forensics people working on this project came up the chain of command to my office.”
“That’s my fault, sir,” Jack said. “There simply wasn’t time for each of your bureaucracies to analyze, vet, and approve every piece of intelligence needed to piece these attacks together—”
“God damn!” FBI swore. “You just went off reservation and used the Bureau as your own personal forensics lab? Who did this work for you? He or she will be pounding the pavement within the hour, by God.”
Jack stood his ground, “Sir, I got the intel I needed to put one more piece into this god awful puzzle in two hours time. I went directly to the best computer forensics analyst I know. Just called her at the New York Field Office. How long would that have taken you?” Jack pressed his point. “No, let me tell you.” He ticked off the stops sending the order down the bureaucratic chain of command, then back up once the work was done. It amounted to a total of twelve days to do what he did in two hours.
Jack looked around the table. Well, no one likes being called out in front of the boss. They know I’m right. Jack felt Helen’s hand on his arm.
“Meanwhile,” Helen said, “the FBI has not budged while they wait for this critical information. Which turned out not to be any critical information at all. See the point, gentlemen? This is time sensitive. It cannot wait for the bureaucracy.”
The Director of Homeland slapped the tabletop and leaped to his feet, red in the face. “Now see here. There is a reason for a chain of command. The low-level analysts and knuckle draggers do not have the big picture. What they find must be analyzed, corroborated, vetted, and often duplicated by people better informed, with more experience and skill to be sure it’s right. That is what must happen as intelligence flows up the chain of command.” He turned to face the President. “Sir, that is the only way we can be assured of providing you the essential information you need to make decisions on matters that vitally affect the security of these United States.”
The CIA Director was on his feet too, “Mr. Schilling is right about the extra time it takes to get the maximum benefit of the chain of command. But I for one would rather take that time and get it right than to go off half-cocked at the potential cost of American lives.”
Jack knew the bureaucratic circling of the wagons when he saw it. I’m a threat to their turf. But there’s a ticking clock. As surely as my own heart is beating, there’s going to be another attack. And another and another until we stop whoever is responsible.
The FBI Director, CIA, and Homeland were all on their feet. FBI shouted loudest. “Jack got lucky this time circumventing the command chain. I am unwilling to trust one man’s personal luck with the air-traveling public’s safety. Stand down, Jack, and let the professionals do their jobs. It is what we do best, and we’re damned good at it.” He turned to the head of the table, “Mr. President, even though he is your god son, he is getting in the way of the people who protect our nation for a living.”
“Just simmer down,” ordered the President to the three agency directors. “And for Pete’s sake sit. You’re all making me nervous. I might agree with you—”
“Gentlemen,” Jack said as he stood and walked around the table.
“Now see here, Mr. President,” wailed the CIA Director
Jack remained at the opposite end of the table from the President, ignoring the whiner. “So far, we’ve had one catastrophic air crash and one near miss. Eight people are dead.”
Jack turned to the Chief of Naval Operations, “Sir, I was on Reagan when your sailors stepped into the fight. They did something that’s never been done before. And they saved 147 innocent passengers. They did not spend one second worrying about personal turf wars.”
The Chief of Naval Operations showed a slight upturn in his normally taciturn mouth. His left hand rose an inch off the table, acknowledging Jack’s compliment.
“Gentlemen,” Jack continued, “you may think we’ve achieved victory and this is over. That couldn’t be further from the truth.” This statement snapped heads toward him. Instantly, the serious stares returned. “Thanks to the NTSB and Mr. Gallagher here, we’ve uncovered evidence of a conspiracy aimed at all US air carriers.”
“But the InterTrans airliner didn’t crash, now did it, Jack?” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “So they have failed now haven’t they?”
“The hell they did,” said the Commandant of the Marine Corp. “They showed us their ability to take control of a commercial jet with almost a hundred fifty passengers aboard.”
“Yes, sir. They didn’t need to actually crash the plane to send their message,” Jack interjected. “Though that was probably their intent. It was our kids’ extraordinary resourcefulness that prevented a flat out disaster.”
“So far, there have been just two attacks,” Helen said. “The press will likely dismiss the business jet crash. As for InterTrans 3361, the media will press the angle of our heroic Navy and how they managed to save 147 innocents. That’s the story we let them run with. Add Sulley’s assistance too if you want. Everyone loves a hero.”
Jack watched his wife. The way she handled these heavyweights was amazing. No poor little rich girl. True, she had more opportunities growing up than any other person on earth. But then again, she maxed out each one. She’s a darling of the media. Even quoted in the Wall Street Journal last week. She’s not a publicity h
ound like some. But doesn’t clam up when a mic is shoved in her face either.
The President nodded and held up one finger. “Helen is right. We redirect the public’s attention. In so doing, we minimize the fear these people are injecting into America’s commercial air travel industry.”
“It buys us some time,” Jack added. “We can expect more attempts to crash our commercial airliners.” Jack was allowed one minute to describe the targeting of America’s most vulnerable airlines. He conjectured how the perpetrators found the weaknesses and just wormed their way inside the airline’s computers.
“All with the cabin pressurization systems?” asked the National Security Advisor.
“We closed that avenue of attack,” Gallagher said. “If there’s another crash it won’t use cabin pressure as the trigger point.”
Jack added. “We’re not stopping just with the airlines—”
“What?” demanded the National Security Advisor. She was a professor of economics at Yale before being yanked into the White House just because her friend managed to get himself elected president. “You’re going to alert the marine shippers, railroads, subways, and truckers?”
“And the oil pipelines, electrical utilities, nat gas producers and distributors, and the entire financial industry,” Jack said. “Anything that moves people, goods, or data is at risk.”
“We don’t have the resources to throw at all modes of transport,” the National Security Advisor whined. “Trucks, ships, and trains just don’t have the PR clout that a horrific airline crash does. That’s what a terrorist organization is looking for—”
Helen was on her feet even before Jack. “Ma’am, the stakes are so sky-high that we cannot afford to put all our eggs in one basket. Concentrating just on air transport bets the lives of hundreds, maybe thousands of Americans on just one transportation channel. When there are others equally as vulnerable.”
“Sir,” Homeland said, “Amateur hour is over. Terrorists go for maximum impact, the most public exposure they can get. That’s the airlines. No other form of transport comes close. Let Homeland get on with the business of protecting the American public. We have the infrastructure, the necessary departments, personnel, and whatever resources we need at our disposal. Should we need anything else, we’re willing to call in the FBI and CIA in a consulting capacity—”
Man of Honor (Enforcement Division Book 4) Page 7
