Patriot Act

by James Phelan

  Instinctively jerking away from the pain, Dunn staggered to his feet and stepped over a dying crew member lying in a hatchway, the man looking wide-eyed at his own intestines strewn along the deck.

  Inside the ship was chaos as Dunn charged toward the aft NSA spaces he was assigned to. There, intercept operators were shredding classified documents, smashing sensitive equipment and loading codebooks and intercepted voice tapes into ‘Ditch Bags.’ Made of heavy canvas and measuring five feet high, the bags were designed to take sensitive material to the bottom of the sea and out of other partys’ hands. They had lead weights in the bottom and brass eyelets at points all around to allow water to pour in. They were designed to sink, and sink fast.

  Grabbing the first of the loaded bags—there would be almost two dozen to be filled—Dunn dragged it from the room and up the stairs. It took every ounce of strength, and his chest protested with pain at every step.

  Sparks flew throughout the ship as the tracers punctured the hull, burrowing through anything in their path until they hit structural steel, or passed out the other side of the vessel. The sound was like a hailstorm of rocks hitting a tin roof.

  Dunn headed topside. He saw daylight through a hole in a man’s arm. Saw another man cut in half. The decks outside were a tangled web of steel and wires, of explosions and shouted orders from the fire crews. As if knowing the use of every antenna, the fighter jets managed in three passes to put a hole in them all.

  ’The water’s too shallow—we have to wait until the ship moves further out!’ said another NSA man as he dumped his bag onto the deck next to Dunn and dashed off again, disappearing in a cloud of smoke that billowed from the rocketed pilothouse.

  His world a spinning daze, Dunn followed and paused at the door to the radio room. Through the ringing in his ears, he managed to pick up the staccato mayday calls from the only still-standing crewman—the room had taken a direct hit moments earlier.

  “Flash, flash, flash!” the radioman shouted. Heavy jamming from the Israelis crackled over the speakers. “Flash, flash, flash—I pass in the blind. All stations this is Rockstar, under heavy attack from fighter aircraft on position…” At that moment a fresh series of pinging noises announced the Mirages were doing yet another pass, augmented by a loud explosion and fireball that licked through the doorway behind Dunn, singeing his clothes.

  The call, going out to any and all Sixth Fleet vessels in the Mediterranean, was picked up by the USSSaratoga on the fourth try.

  “Rockstar, this is Schematic, please provide authentication code,” came the level reply from the aircraft carrier over four hundred kilometres away, sailing off Crete.

  “Negative, Schematic, codes are down, repeat codes are down—we are under heavy attack!” the Liberty’s radioman called, squeezing the microphone as he yelled.

  “Rockstar, we require authentication—”

  “Listen to the fucking bombs, you son of a bitch!” The radioman was red in the face and pounded his fists into the bench in front of him.

  Dunn turned around and walked to the edge of the railing. Overboard, bodies floated, some survivors trying to swim to the safety of land they could barely see. He pushed the classified-intelligence ditch bags into the sea, hoping the water here was deep enough to hide them forever. He closed his eyes as the sound of another wave of aircraft washed over him, the unmistakable smell of napalm drowning the ship.

  Crew attempting to abandon ship were targeted by the torpedo boats whenever they ventured above decks, and life rafts were strafed in the water and blown from their mounts with devastating accuracy.

  Dunn fell over the side and felt warmth encase him as his senses went offline one by one.

  102

  NEW YORK CITY

  Fox looked at his watch. Waiting in the arrival lounge at JFK, he walked up to the stewardess who was closing the door to the gate.

  “Excuse me, there’s no one else on this plane?”

  “That’s it I’m afraid, sir. Perhaps your passenger missed the flight. Want me to check?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Fox said as he gave her the details and waited for the response. A phone call later Fox was headed for the exit. He called Kate’s cell again but it was still switched off. He looked up at the monitors on his way out; there were two more flights coming in from Washington in an hour’s time.

  He placed another call.

  “Faith Williams.”

  “Faith, it’s Lachlan,” he said.

  “Hey you, what’s up?” she asked.

  “Run another flight-ticketing check with your contact at the Feds for me?”

  “She was a no-show?”

  “Yeah, didn’t board at Dulles. Check any of today’s flights from Washington to New York, she may have rebooked a flight recently.”

  “Okay, call you back in five.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ten minutes later, Fox was in a GSR SUV driving back to Manhattan. Not only was Kate a no-show for her flight, she was not booked on any others.

  Two cars behind Fox, the French consular officer pulled into the traffic. He continually scanned his rear-view mirror, sure there were FBI agents out there somewhere. He changed lanes after the SUV, almost sideswiping an ambulance in the process. He dialled a cell number, sweat running down his temples.

  “Yes?” Secher said.

  “Major, he is driving back from the airport to Manhattan.”

  “Keep on him,” Secher ordered. “Let me know where he goes.””

  “He is travelling with a driver, looks like a bodyguard,” the officer said. “And I think the FBI may be following me, and I don’t like that prospect, not since they shot your New York agent—”

  “I will relieve you within two hours. Do not lose him, this mission is vital to France.” Secher hung up.

  103

  NEW YORK CITY

  Fox walked quickly, spotted his target and took a right down the timber marina at the 79th Street Boat Basin. Most of the craft at this end were small sailboats and open-topped cruisers, with the odd larger catamaran thrown in.

  “Your doorman told me I could find you down here,” Fox said.

  Frank Matthews was polishing the timber decking of a vintage speedboat, much like the water taxis seen in Venice.

  “Hey, Lachlan,” Frank said, wiping his hands on a rag before shaking Fox’s hand.

  “She’s beautiful,” Fox said, running a hand over the pristine panelling. The interior had been re-upholstered in a sandy red leather, the chrome dials in the dash gleamed behind a white sports steering wheel.

  “Kate,” Frank said.

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  “My father had her, kept the engine in perfect order but the body was worse for wear when I inherited her. Been doing it up for Kate, just not sure when to give it to her.”

  “No time like the present,” Fox said.

  Frank had a distant look in his eyes, then resumed polishing. Seemed letting go of the boat was as hard as letting go of his daughter.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “I’m actually after Kate, I haven’t been able to reach her,” Fox said, picking up a rag and helping buff the polish off.

  “Still in Washington, had to push her flight back for some reason. Should be home early this evening I think, but best to check with Faye when she’s back home in an hour or so, she has more of a mind for these things.”

  “Okay. You’ll be right with this?”

  “Yeah, I wanna get it done today, what else are workdays for? Anyway, big storm headed in tonight, so I have to get her done before then and double up the moorings of the cruiser.” Frank pointed to the bigger modern boat next to Kate.

  “They don’t build them like Kateany more,” Fox said, shaking Frank’s hand again.

  “They sure don’t.”

  104

  HIGH OVER FRANCE

&nbs
p; The pair of B-2 Spirits flew at a height of 15,000 metres, and at over seven hundred kilometres per hour. The two pilots on board each aircraft switched through their laser-guiding systems.

  Known more commonly as Stealth Bombers, the flying wing designs gave them an otherworldly appearance. The black paintwork was to camouflage them in the night sky, which is when they did most of their hunting. The stealth design and technology hid their massive bulk from almost all radars.

  “Ghost, this is Fatal Beauty, running check on ground targeting, lighting up GATS.”

  “Copy that, Fatal Beauty, lighting GATS,” the pilot of Ghost called, both aircraft switching over the laser-designated target below to be converted to Differential GPS coordinates.

  105

  NEW YORK CITY

  Finally, Fox got through to Mrs Matthews.

  “Hello?” she said over the phone. “Mrs Matthews, it’s Lachlan Fox,” he told her. He hoped his voice was coming across as measured and calm.

  “Oh, hi, Lachlan,” she said. “Kate’s actually in Washington at the moment.”

  “Yes, I know,” Fox said. He paced in his office, the cell phone held tight to his ear. “I was expecting her on an early-morning flight back to JFK. Do you know what her movements are?”

  “Yes, she rang moments ago,” Faye Matthews replied. “She’s arriving back on a flight this afternoon, still into JFK I think. Said she would make her own way home in a cab.”

  “Thanks, I might pop by later today to see how she is,” Fox said. He ended the call, wondering how long he had to stop her.

  106

  FORT GAUCHER

  “What is it?” Danton said. He didn’t bother to look up at the agent who entered, instead he continued to type commands into the computer. Hitting ‘enter’, the twenty million Euros transferred into Secher’s account.

  The agent waited in silence until Danton looked up. “Yes?” Danton asked, recognising the fresh-faced junior from the communications room.

  “We have picked up unusual radio traffic, sir,” he said. “Non-designated aircraft, intermittently coming up.”

  Danton’s eyes went wide for a second.

  “Wake up the communications team,” he said, standing up from behind his desk and pulling his jacket on. “No one leaves their stations until the aircraft are identified.”

  107

  MONT BLANC, FRANCE

  The SAS split up into four fire teams in their assault on Fort Gaucher.

  Three eight-man teams set off to climb the steep mountain slopes, two teams in a pincer manoeuvre above the cut-out tunnel that snaked into the mountain, and the third team entering from the opposite side, where the mountain was at its highest point.

  The remaining team of eight soldiers split into two, one four-man team heading for the only road into the mountain, and the remaining team setting off for a small relief valve at a thin point in the mountain’s wall.

  At the road leading in, the four soldiers buried high explosives at a precipice, ready to blow out a twenty-metre stretch of blacktop. Digging themselves into snow-covered positions close to the entrance of the tunnel, they readied themselves for battle. Farrell called in for each of his soldiers, and one by one they confirmed they had completed their initial objectives and were in position. Now it was a waiting game.

  108

  NEW YORK CITY

  Fox walked back into his office after another update on Gammaldi and the security team, finally in the air from Canada and still a good six hours away.

  “It’s Fox,” he said, answering his cell.

  “Hutchinson—you were trying to reach me earlier?”

  “Yeah, thanks for calling back,” Fox said, and he rushed around his side of the desk, flicking to the info on Secher. “Christian Secher, did you read his file?”

  “Capel’s going through that now,” Hutchinson replied. “I’ve been working on a warrant to bring in the Consul General to see what he knows about all this.”

  “You may not need to,” Fox said. He told him about Kate and Secher, about her job, the threatened French coup, the Advocacy Center …

  “You told anyone else this?”

  “Ira Dunn at NSA.”

  “Okay, leave it with me,” Hutchinson said. “I’ll have an agent call past her apartment in Washington ASAP. You hear anything, give me a call.”

  “Will do, thanks,” Fox said, about to end the call. “Hutchinson!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Quick question. Kate said she was arrested at college and cut a deal not to have any charges left on her record. This was in DC, about ten years ago.”

  “She certainly doesn’t have a record, I know that much about her,” Hutchinson said.

  “That’s my point,” Fox replied. “Who could totally wipe a record like that? Not even a mention, nothing, when the crime involved a congressman?”

  “We could,” Hutchinson said. “Need a damn good reason, though.”

  “Like what kind of reason? If the charges were conspiracy to assault, blackmail, obstructing justice…”

  “All depends. Most common is when we put people into witness protection,” Hutchinson said. “Couple of other agencies clear records to protect undercovers, insiders, double agents … oh, you clever son of a bitch!”

  109

  ATLANTIC OCEAN

  “Genius,” the officer said, slapping the chief on the back and picking up the line to the bridge.

  As they watched, the profile of the seafloor had changed. Where there had been a flat area now showed an underwater ridge. They had the helo go back over the spot and dip its sonar—to find the area flat again. It took a few wrong turns until the next sector of the sonar net showed the same pattern. Something big, like a nuclear-powered submarine, was slowly heading east. And now they had a bearing.

  The bulk of the big submarine was giving false echo readings from the seafloor.

  “Captain, it’s confirmed, we’ve got her,” the officer said. “Contact bearing twelve hundred metres off our port bow, westbound at eight knots.”

  “Roger that, Sonar.” The captain hung up the intercom and called to his XO. “Have the helo keep on her and alert the navy.”

  110

  WASHINGTON

  The hearing was in an annex meeting room in the Capitol Building.

  Across the table from Ira Dunn sat the members of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

  Dunn was alone on his side of the table.

  No press. No lawyers. No stenographer. This was as closed as a session could get on Capitol Hill.

  “Mr Dunn—”

  “Colonel Dunn, Senator,” Dunn said, accentuating the woman’s title.

  “Colonel Dunn,” the majority leader started again. “You are here today to discuss the activities of your office in relation to illegal wiretapping. Of particular concern are recent findings by the UN security services in New York that the fibre-optic cables supplying the headquarters building were tapped into.”

  There was a pause where it was expected Dunn would say something, but he remained silent.

  “Also, we have evidence from the FBI that you intercepted telephone and email traffic between one of their agents and a suspected double-agent in the CIA.”

  Again Dunn was silent. He tapped his pen on the closed folder in front of him, looking at the people before him.

  “You have been conducting activities that are well beyond your mandated scope of responsibility,” the senior senator said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “And you’re going to be held to account for it, in a more public hearing than this one.”

  “Senator, I’m mandated to protect this country,” Dunn said slowly. “It’s something I do a damn good job of.”

  “Indeed, your record has been exemplary, Colonel.” The chairing senator looked down at her notes.

  “Tell us about the activities of Echelon. As mentioned, of pa
rticular concern to us today is the illegal targeting of communications within the United States.”

  Dunn looked at the six members in front of him. This had taken a turn from the 9/11 investigation he was expecting. Not that it mattered. He tried to look at them like he had all the Aces, even with a few spares up his sleeve.

  “You ever served on the frontline? Any of you?”

  “Colonel…”

  “I’m happy to answer your questions, it’s only fair you answer one or two of mine, only friendly,” Dunn said.

  “We’re not here to make friends with you, Colonel Dunn,” the senator said.

  Silence. Dunn was waiting for an answer.

  “Well, women weren’t in frontline forces when I was of serving age,” the chairwoman said.

  “Ever served in the military?” Dunn asked. “I know none of you have.”

  “Then why waste our time with the question?”

  “We live in a big wide world, and as much as you like to think otherwise, no matter how big our military is, we are an open society. A nation without physical walls.”

  “Thank you for that insight—”

  “For the past thirty-three years, I’ve given everything to this country,” Dunn said. “For the past thirty-three years I’ve seen and heard everything there is to do with defending this country. I was there when the sons of bitches in the Pentagon wanted to make phoney terrorist strikes within our own country to starta war with Cuba.”