“Oh, right,” Victor said. “But you were part of Task Force 88, Operation Snake Eyes?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny such a task force or operation.”
“On 12 September 2009, you killed a number of Syrian insurgents while rescuing a kidnapped CIA technician named Young Park.”
Chris felt even more uncomfortable, but he said nothing.
Victor leaned forward in his chair. “That mission cost you your right ear, and now you wear a prosthetic.”
Now Chris was pissed at having his personal history laid out so casually, but he hid his irritation out of respect for Hannah and Jim Bob—and because he didn’t want the others to think someone could get him riled so quickly. “Piercing and tattoos are so yesterday,” Chris said with a grin. He chewed a hunk of warm chicken breast. It tasted almost as good as home cooked.
Jim Bob chuckled. “Now Victor, you should show Chris more hospitality than that,” he said in that fatherly tone.
“Yes, sir,” Victor said, straightening in his chair.
“This chicken ain’t half bad,” Jim Bob remarked.
Hannah hungrily bit chunks out of a drum stick and chewed the meat quickly before swallowing. She cleaned off the remaining meat from the bone before moving on to a wing. She’d become so immersed in her eating that she seemed oblivious to her surroundings.
“Victor, would you give our non-disclosure agreement to Chris so he can take a look at it?” Jim Bob asked.
“Yes, sir.” Victor produced a form from his file and politely passed it to Chris.
Chris wiped his hands before taking it. He’d signed such agreements before, but he still took the time to read through it. Centered at the top were the words Secrecy Agreement. In the middle of the paper was a watermark of the CIA seal. After several pages of text, near the bottom, Chris signed and dated the contract. He gave the papers to Jim Bob, who signed and dated the last lines as a witness before returning the form to Victor, who placed it in his file.
“Wonderful,” Jim Bob said. “Victor, would you cut the lights and start the presentation?” He spoke it casually as if they were in an everyday business meeting instead of a secret government operation briefing. Jim Bob seemed so comfortable with it all that Chris guessed he’d probably been at it for close to a couple of decades.
“Yes, sir,” Victor replied. He flicked a switch on the wall, and a projection screen descended from above. Then he pressed a button on a remote control, and a projector mounted in the ceiling came alive. After dimming the lights, he began the brief. On the screen materialized a photo of a small Unmanned Aerial Vehicle (UAV). “This is the Navy’s newest UAV, codenamed Switchblade Whisper,” Victor explained. “With its wings collapsed, the UAV is stored in a canister small enough to fit in a backpack. Or the trash tube of a submarine underwater at periscope depth.” Victor showed a computer graphics simulation of a submarine. “The Switchblade Whisper in the canister is ejected from a submarine’s trash tube, floats to the surface, and launches into the air, where each wing flicks out like the blade of a switchblade. In the submarine’s combat control room, the operator controls the Switchblade Whisper’s flight, conducting reconnaissance and surveillance. Visual data is encrypted and streamed live back to the submarine. The drone also backs up the gathered intelligence, so even if the live stream is compromised, intelligence can still be retrieved from the Switchblade Whisper itself. Then it flies back to the submarine, retracts its wings, and splashes down in the water where it floats until the submarine’s diver retrieves it.”
The technology was impressive, but in Chris’s experience, technology without brave boots on the ground was always a goat-screw. He patiently listened for what his role might be.
Next, Victor displayed an actual photo of a submarine. “Three days ago, off the coast of Syria, the USS Mississippi took part in a covert mission during which they launched the Switchblade Whisper. The Mississippi was in the process of collecting critical intelligence when the Switchblade Whisper’s live streaming went out, and the Mississippi lost control of the UAV over land near the port city of Latakia, Syria. We need to retrieve that drone.”
Chris looked over at Hannah, but she was currently more engaged in her coleslaw than the brief. Maybe she already knew more about the mission than him. “I still don’t understand the urgency of this mission,” he said.
Hannah stopped eating her coleslaw and wiped her mouth. “I recruited an asset who was a technical analyst for Syria’s cyber warfare unit. He reported that the unit’s commander is Professor Yushua Mordet. During the Switchblade Whisper’s surveillance mission, it experienced a malfunction, and Mordet exploited the malfunction by jamming satellite and submarine signals to the Switchblade Whisper. He fed the Switchblade Whisper’s internal navigation system false information that it was being attacked. Then he gave the drone navigation data, spoofing a landing back on the submarine, so the Switchblade Whisper would actually land in Syria. But Mordet lost control of it before he could land it.”
The gears in Chris’s mind turned to figure out what could happen if Mordet got that data.
“I left a payment for my asset in a prearranged drop,” Hannah went on, “but he never picked it up.” She paused. “His head and some other body parts were found in the parking lot of an international food market. Mordet is obviously still trying to get his hands on the Switchblade Whisper, and we have reason to believe he’s going to use the technology to attack the US.”
Jim Bob cleared his throat. “We recently discovered that similar technology used in the Switchblade Whisper is being used by the same government contractor to protect utility and transportation information technology in New York, Virginia and Washington, DC,” he said. “We believe that Department of Defense weapons systems are also vulnerable. But the Department of Defense and Washington, DC disagree with our assessment. If Mordet gets ahold of the black box on the Switchblade Whisper before we do, we think he is capable of using that crypto, security and authentication to hack into the Department of Defense and DC’s critical infrastructures.”
“Do we have specific information about attempted hacks on the US that we can trace to Syria?” Chris asked.
“The FBI’s Computer Investigation and Infrastructure Threat Assessment Center discovered a Syrian hacker cell breaking into New York City’s electrical grid,” Hannah said, “and the agents stopped the cell before they succeeded in introducing a virus into the system. Now New York is changing its utility and transportation IT security systems, but the Department of Defense and Washington, DC deny there is a credible threat. The Secret Service has contacted the DC mayor about concerns of an attack against the White House, and the mayor has agreed to reexamine the threat.”
Chris shook his head. “Reexamine the threat? What if Mordet acquires the black box on the Switchblade Whisper, and he figures out an algorithm capable of breaking into their IT systems?”
“Exactly. He could obtain our military’s secrets, destroy computers and satellites, shut down electricity and water, and cause billions of dollars of damage,” Hannah said. “Change all traffic lights to green, for example. DC has the second-busiest rapid transit system in the U.S. and the second-busiest train station—Mordet could reroute them for derailing and head-on collisions. I don’t know exactly what his plan is, but I do believe he’ll cause as many human deaths as possible.”
Chris’s nostrils flared, and his eyes opened wide. “We have to stop him.”
“Our cover will be as Adventure Tours, scouting for a new thrill for our wealthy clientele,” Jim Bob said. “The four of us will fly to Cyprus, where we’ll board a yacht and sail to Syria. From there, we’ll drive up a mountain and recon the location near Tishreen Lake where intel reports say the Switchblade Whisper should be. A tracking device was designed into the black box, and we’ll have a GPS tracker to help us pinpoint its location. Then we’ll return to the location at night and retrieve the black box and as much of the plane as is practical to carry. What we can’t
take out with us, Chris, you will destroy with explosives.”
Chris didn’t react. There was nothing to say, only to do. His background seemed a perfect fit for the mission.
“Then we’ll sail out of Syria with the Switchblade Whisper,” Jim Bob continued, “and transport it to the USS James E. Williams, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, anchored in international waters near Cyprus.” He met Chris’s gaze. “The purpose of this mission isn’t to kill people, but if our lives are in danger, we’ll need you to help us shoot our way out.”
“You mean kill people,” Chris said. He hoped the op would go down smoothly and there wouldn’t be a need for killing. But with Mordet involved, that seemed unlikely.
“Yes, do what you have to do. Since our government doesn’t want to be overtly associated with this mission, if we are compromised, the United States will deny any knowledge.”
6
_______
After the briefing, the four of them went to pick up their gear. Then Hannah escorted Chris to the Special Operations Group armory, where a smorgasbord of weapons made his mouth water. He’d forgotten the special bond he felt with firearms that transcended the physical world.
“What would you like for dessert?” she asked, standing in front of racks of pistols, revolvers, submachine pistols, submachine guns, shotguns, assault rifles, and sniper rifles. Hannah grabbed an HK P30 9 mm pistol and HK416 assault rifle. “These two are mine.”
Chris smiled approvingly.
“You can look and touch, but you can’t take,” she said, holding her HK416 out to him.
He took the HK416 and pulled back the charging handle to make sure there wasn’t a live round in the chamber. “Nice balance of durability and accuracy.” He turned on the EO-Tech optical sight. It magnified everything to three times its normal size.
“You broke some hearts when you left Iraq,” she said too casually to be casual. “Why’d you go?”
He continued to study the weapon. He flicked the fire selector switch on the weapon between safe, semi, and full auto. “You don’t really want to know.”
“I only wanted to know, but now I really want to know.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Because I’m so stupid? Or because you’re so smart?”
“Forget about it.” He gave the HK416 back to her.
“Now I can’t forget about it. You built up the suspense.”
She wasn’t going to let it go, and he trusted her, so he gave in. “Okay. You remember that op when we rescued Young?”
“Yeah.”
“After I joined the Teams, I always felt incomplete. Often thought about what it would be like to become a minister. After we rescued Young, I’d had enough of the Teams. Then when Young was going through some emotional issues, the psychologist worked with him, but Young was still suffering. I took him to the chaplain, and that made a significant difference. I wanted to make a difference in people’s lives like that, so I got out and went back to Harvard to study theology.”
Hannah shook her head. “Just like that?”
“It’s something I always wanted to do. And I got tired of chasing dirt-bags.”
“You really are nuts.”
“Why’d you sign up for the Agency?” Chris asked.
“A way out of East LA’s poverty, crime, gangs and drugs. After the director gave me my spy school diploma, I never went back.”
He handed her back her weapon. “Why’d you stay in? You could do other things.”
Hannah discovered another HK416 and handed it to him. “I miss my family, but I have no desire to live in that world. You guys are my family. This is my world.”
“I’ve got to admit, I missed the camaraderie. Never found anything like it again.” Chris examined his HK416. “I need some bling on this bad boy.”
A small, wizened man stepped into the armory. “I’m the armorer,” he said with a voice that sounded like Yoda.
“I’d like to put a Micro Aimpoint sight and a VTAC two-point sling on it,” Chris said. It would allow him to see a red dot in the small scope without the enemy noticing. The sling was just for ease of carrying and the freedom to use both hands on other tasks.
Yoda’s eyes sparkled at the idea. “How soon do you need it?”
“The sooner the better, sir.” Chris picked up a Glock 19 Gen-4. The compact pistol was small enough to conceal without compromising accuracy. It looked brand new, including the plastic sights that might break off under severe conditions. “And I need a pair of Heinie LEDGE Straight Eight sights for this one. I’ll need to zero it to twenty-five meters.”
Yoda’s brow furrowed. People zeroed rifles, but most people didn’t zero pistols. Chris wasn’t most people. He examined the magazine well in the grip, and there was a gap where debris could enter and seep into the trigger mechanism, jamming it. “And a grip plug on the Glock to keep the dirt out.”
“You really know your weapons,” Yoda said.
Chris smiled and handed over the weapons.
Yoda held the Glock in one hand and cradled the HK416 like a child. “I’m going to miss you two.” A hint of sadness crept onto his face before he walked away with the pistol and carbine.
Chris turned to Hannah. “Can you get me on the Farm tonight, so I can do a little shooting?”
Hannah laughed and shook her head. “I knew you weren’t that far out of the game, Reverend. I’ll see what I can do.” She stepped out of the armory, her fingers already flying across her cell phone. Chris guessed she was calling the head of staff at the CIA’s secret training facility.
Half an hour later, they loaded weapons and gear into a green SUV before descending further into the abyss of covert ops. They stopped at a nearby convenience store and loaded up food for later before driving south.
“What’d you do this morning?” Hannah asked.
“Before joining you? Just the usual.”
“The usual?”
“What, did you bug my place or something?” he asked playfully.
“If I did, would I have to ask?”
“Said a prayer. Fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, thirty-minute run. Then I read the Bible for half an hour before breakfast.”
“You still shoot much?” she asked, changing the topic.
He shrugged. “Hardly at all.”
“Don’t your firearms get lonely?”
“Don’t own any,” he said.
“Don’t own any? Is that what they taught you in preacher school?”
“It was a personal choice,” he said with a chuckle. “I loved shooting. But after years at Six, it became more work and less joy. Then when I studied to become a pastor and all, I didn’t have time for it. Shooting was no longer a priority.”
“What would you have done if someone broke into your house or something while you were home?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s a good thing I’m rescuing you from all that religious brain-washing,” she said, her tone no longer so relaxed.
He’d heard comments like that before, and he wasn’t angered, but he was curious. Especially when it came to her. “Why do you dislike religion so much?”
“The fact that two adults like us can’t agree on the existence of God is evidence to me that He doesn’t exist. You were born wealthy, and your parents were, too. I inherited caca. When so much is given to you and everything’s blowing your way, it probably seems like God is walking around the neighborhood, but in El Este de Los Angeles, there is no God—if there was, he’d carry an AK and wear a bullet-resistant vest.”
Chris didn’t want to argue with her. They were both headstrong, and arguing would lead nowhere, so he didn’t say another word, hoping her mood would improve. After several minutes, he thought of something positive to shift the conversation back into safe territory. “If the rest of the spooks could operate like you, I wouldn’t care if the whole Agency were atheist.”
“You know you may have to kill someone on this mission, right?” She glanced ove
r at Chris, then back at the road.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked.
“No. I just know that things might get hairy and bullets start flying.”
“On most of the best ops I’ve been on, no shots were fired. Get in, accomplish the mission, get out.”
“I hope this turns out to be a best op,” she said, “but I won’t bet all my money on it.”
“That’s why we’re riding all this way out to the Farm.”
She laughed. “Touché.”
After a two-and-a-half-hour ride, they reached the rolling hills and evergreen forests surrounding the Farm. There they passed high fences topped with concertina wire. NO TRESPASSING government signs were posted on the fences at regular intervals. Behind one fence, a guard carrying an M4 watched them and spoke into his radio mike while he stood beside an olive-colored Humvee with a machine gun mounted on top. Inside the Humvee, another guard sat in the driver’s seat.
At the front gate, a sign read: ARMED FORCES EXPERIMENTAL TRAINING ACTIVITY. The cover name for the CIA’s Camp Peary, a.k.a. “the Farm.”
Hannah steered an S through concrete barriers before stopping at the sentry box. Under the watchful electric eyes of surveillance cameras and sensors, Special Police Officers checked them and their vehicle before waving them through. Hannah drove over a large metal plate, a hydraulic barricade that could pop up in emergencies to block the entrance.
Soon they passed the restricted residential area for Agency instructors and other personnel. A couple minutes, later they went by the compound where new CIA recruits received some of their field training.
Finally, Hannah stopped and parked at a shooting bay that faced outdoor target holders. Chris and Hannah unloaded the SUV. He placed a spotting scope on the firing line and pinned up targets at varying distances. He returned to the firing line, lay in the prone position, and fired five shots at the closest target, twenty-five meters. Then Chris leaned to his side and looked through his spotting scope. The five shots had created a crater in the bottom left corner of the cardboard backing, but they hadn’t even hit the paper. Chris adjusted his sights. He fired five more shots, then checked the spotting scope again. This time, he’d hit the paper, but it was still on the white, outside the black rings, so he adjusted his sights again. Then he hit near the bull’s-eye. His heart said, Hardy-har-har.
Trident's First Gleaming Page 5
