by John Barnes
But if “Deep Black” was a red flag, DoDDUSP was a shrieking siren—the painfully long abbreviation for Department of Defense Deputy Under Secretary for Policy, which could be roughly defined as the guy in charge of having at his fingertips all the plans for all the wars the United States seemed likely to get into, in case the President should say, “occupy Sudan,” or “seal the Mexican border,” or ask “How long would it take us, starting from right now, to seize Abu Dhabi?” For forty years and more, DoDDUSPs had planned Grenada, Haiti, Kosovo, Somalia, Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Eritrea, Jordan, the Second Korean War, the Taiwan defense, both Iranian wars, and the Myanmar Relief in Force—and a few more things the public had never heard about.
If DoDDUSP was here, it was because Cam thought there might need to be a war.
Cameron was nodding slightly, his lips pressed together, signaling her, Yes, that’s right, it’s that bad. “I have to confer with—”
The voice over the speaker said, “Mr. Nguyen-Peters, the President is just now coming in through the ultrasecure entrance.”
“We should talk some time when there is time to talk. Meanwhile I have bigwigs to prep for the ops room. I know you can be ready on your own. Down that way, then left, someone’ll set you up.”
“Thanks.” She hurried down the hall. He did say the ops room, didn’t he? A real working space for things that were truly bad.
At the door, she was retina-scanned by an apologetic young man. Inside, no one looked up as she came in. A map of the West Coast and the Eastern Pacific dominated the big central screen, with tables and graphs scrolling by in adjoining windows. Grim-faced people in headsets, some military, some civilian, many that radiated “cop,” a handful of geeks, a few who had the spy’s trick of giving off nothing, were all staring into screens and tapping the keys on their desks.
Lights were low so everyone could read screens easily, and to keep voices low; it felt like two minutes to midnight. A hundred feet up it was a nice fall afternoon with the trees bursting with color, and the people didn’t know this place was here. For a fleeting moment, Heather envied them, and then she strode to the station where a slim, olive-skinned young woman was beckoning her.
God, she’s young—surely they’re not using interns in here? Damn. No, I’ve just reached an age where some real live adults look young to me.
A transparent screen wrapped the far edge of Heather’s desk like an armor plate, so that she could look through the screen to see everyone else, or opaque it to concentrate.
A small shelf with indentations for cups slid out of the desk to her left. The young woman set four containers into the nearest ones. “Water, Gatorade, and coffee; the last container has squeeze bottles of half and half, vanilla extract, and honey, is that right?”
“Perfect.” Oh, good, the end of the world will be comfortably to my taste.
“Just hit the space bar when you’re ready to read the briefing. Anything else I can do for you?”
“I’m good, I’ve been through these before.” Too many of these, Heather thought, fixing her coffee. She sipped, pressed the space bar and looked.
Her gaze froze onto the screen. So that was where Samuelson had been while the media were lathering about whether he’d been muzzled or had a breakdown. Jayapura was not exactly where you’d think to look—a place most Americans hadn’t thought about since MacArthur invaded there.
She scrolled down, and as she read more, her belly seemed to hold a ball of solid ice. What the hell had everyone been doing for all this time? How had they let the VP be in that isolated town halfway round the world in the first place without proper security? Dammit! Samuelson thinks agreeing is more important than what you agree about, and they strung him along forever, then rushed him, and because he didn’t want “small details”—like proper security!—to be in the way, all the normal security just got peeled off like a guy trying to finish a dogsled race and throwing off his camping stuff, then his spare food, then his water, then his coat—and now the blizzard hits.
So the whole time, as they sacrificed all his security, our brave good-hearted goddam fucking naïve Samuelson kept reassuring everyone that he wasn’t afraid, and nobody said, “But, sir, it’s not just the danger to you, and the reason you’re not afraid is that you’re a fool.”
Radio silence; going out without the direct-to-satellite transmitters, when it turned out they didn’t have one on short notice; not flying one out
ASAP because another plane landing at Sentani might have drawn attention; who the hell’s brilliant idea had that been?
Three real stupid temporary solutions. Or were they stupid? Did they all come from the same place?
Shit. All three from one Samuelson advisor, Atela Pawhan, formerly Mary Davis. Back when she was Davis, she’d been briefly married to a guy who was now identified as a sometime stringer on the edge of the il’Alb il-Jihado network. Pawhan had a cousin, Lorenzo Bell, who worked in the secured storage where they kept the encrypted direct-to-satellite boxes—
She had almost posted round those people up, now, before she saw the screen title: BELL GROUP, IDENTIFIED MEMBERS AND DISPOSITIONS.
Duh.
The reason it was all there on one screen for her to find was that the FBI had already tried to arrest Pawhan and Bell about an hour ago. They found Pawhan dead in her apartment, which had been trashed in a way that fit the script for “surprised an intruder.” Bell had extensive gambling debts, and a suicide note, to go with being found hanging from his showerhead. The feebs didn’t believe either, of course, and were searching their apartments to see if they could find some clue to their controllers.
An IM glowed in the corner of her screen: L. Plekhanov, NSA.
Lenny! Aside from being her source for cryptology, and the only reason Arnie Yang could read Daybreak’s messages, Leonardo Plekhanov was also responsible for the last three dates she’d had—each about a month apart. She looked around for his wheelchair, and then spotted the thick, wraparound glasses surrounding Lenny’s outsized square head above his tiny shoulders; she waved, and he raised his small, twisted left arm at her, smiling.
His message said, shitload more relevant stuff 2 read B4 strt. back 2 wrk, Beautiful. Bell Org prolly= no clues.
Okay, this is seriously weird. how U know?
clenched fists, rubbing back of neck, uncanny analyst ability, sherlock holmes-like attn 2 detail! He turned his wheelchair to give her the full effect of his big grin. also i can read the files backward on yr screen cuz not opaqued.
Addressing me as Beautiful is not exactly opaque either. She took the time to type that one all the way out. Hunh. Assuming the whole world didn’t blow apart, wonder if he’s got anywhere to watch the Series tonight, and if he likes brats baked with sauerkraut? And the Angels, of course.
She put her mind back on the briefing; sheesh, her old tai chi coach would be all over her for the bad case of monkey mind she was developing today. Center, breathe, be in the flow…
Heather felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying good coffee in a comfortable chair, reading about Our Man In Jayapura trapped in that office over a bank. The supplementary data noted that he was twenty-seven years old and on his third assignment with the Foreign Service. At least someone else somewhere had an early career experience that actually sucked worse than mine.
The report noted that he’d destroyed the confidential documents and erased all computer files, standard practice for a consul in his situation, and that his morale was assessed as “good to very good” in the circumstances. There’s a relief, Heather thought, some people might think being surrounded by an angry mob in a foreign country might excuse negative thinking. An attachment to the document said that overtime had been authorized since he couldn’t get back to his apartment. Not only is his morale good, he’s getting paid; can’t do better than that! He had been strongly advised to take all necessary measures for his personal safety. I’m sure he wouldn’t have thought of that on his own.
Indonesian au
thorities in Jayapura, after much polite demurral and reassurance, had finally admitted that Sentani International Airport had been seized just at twilight, when Islamist rebels had come out of the low hills above the airport and overwhelmed the small security force. A “reinforced national police battalion”—internal security troops with a few light machine guns—had gone out from Jayapura to try to retake the airport, but they had been ambushed and thrown back on the only road around the bay. Unequipped for night fighting, the Indonesian soldiers had dug in for the night and would wait for dawn, when, “if God wills it,” a raider battalion would arrive. There were two links to raider battalion, so she clicked on them; the first explained that raiders were what Indonesia called special forces, and the second that the military attaché at the Embassy in Jakarta thought that an Indonesian raider battalion, assuming one arrived, could probably succeed in retaking the airport, unless of course there were more rebels than he had been told or “other unforeseen circumstances.”
In other words, the government forces will win unless they don’t. Nobody said anything about how the raiders would be getting there, with the airport closed. “Naval units” (but the communiqué didn’t say which ones) were “on their way,” and “we expect a satisfactory resolution within a short time” according to an Indonesian defense spokesman, also in Jakarta—farther from Jayapura than DC is from LA.
Heather scanned the FAQ window (and just how can any question about this situation be asked “frequently” yet? Illiterates!). She found timetable.
Two hours before anyone knew that Air Force Two was missing.
Almost five hours before anyone American realized it was probably in hostile hands.
Modified Boeing 787 Dreamliner, cruised at Mach 0.9, fully fueled. Still seven hours flying time left at normal cruise; could reach the opposite side of the planet without refueling.
They had been unable to turn on the secure transponders via satellite, which probably meant Bell had told the other side how to find and destroy them.
Satellite and air reconnaissance revealed no trace of the big white plane on the ground or in the air anywhere near Jayapura. The “Air Force Two Possible Area” now extended nearly from pole to pole, and along the equator from the 135 West meridian (about two-thirds of the way from the mainland to Hawaii) all the way to the 55 East meridian (just short of Madagascar and running north through the Persian Gulf and Iran).
A light touch on her shoulder made her look up at Cameron. “I just wanted to say,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Big mess, eh?”
“Just wanted to say hi to a friendly face before I got into this.”
“Best of luck,” she said, “and I mean that.” At the FBI, she’d been the closest thing he’d had to a friend; that had always made her feel sorry for him.
President Roger Pendano entered, flanked by DoDDUSP Mark Garren. Both men looked tired, shocked, and old. “Here we go,” Cam said, and hurried to the rostrum by the big screen.
“By now you are all aware of the basic situation, but more bad news, just confirmed, will update your timelines on your screens in a couple of minutes. Here it is in brief:
“About forty-five minutes ago, three bodies fell into a large town square in Nakhon Ratchasima, Thailand, apparently dropped from a large unmarked white plane, with twin engines, which was flying low over the town—no positive identification, so far, by anyone we can trust to definitely identify a 787. Local air traffic control confirms that they had a big plane that didn’t answer any radio hail and continued on its way to the northwest.
“The American Embassy has claimed the bodies for an autopsy, but they fell more than a mile and landed on pavement. A Navy doctor from the Franklin Roosevelt is still on her way to do the positive identification. Tentatively, we believe them to be Carol Tattinger, the State Department liaison for Vice President Samuelson’s mission; Martin Reeve, the Defense liaison; and William DeGrante, the Homeland Security liaison. A great circle route from Jayapura through Nakhon Ratchasima extends along a line that skirts the Burma-China border, and then across the very northern edge of India—which is to say one that more or less walks the line between Indian and Chinese airspace. Those are the two competent air forces in that region, and they don’t get along with each other, so if that is Air Force Two, the hijackers may be hoping to be able to dodge across the border if either side tries to intercept.
“That great circle line would take the plane up into wild country in Central Asia, where various Islamist warlords and criminal gangs hold actual power.
“We’ve lofted minis—short-term satellites—using the Raptor augmented system, out of Germany, and Global Hawks have already taken off from Bagram, so if it stays in the air, we should be able to find that white plane within the hour. India has been completely cooperative—they’ve offered us landing rights as needed and some of their own planes are out searching even as we speak. When you ask China for help, of course, you never know what the answer is going to be until they give it.”
That caused State and Defense reps to interrupt and argue; Heather had time to access the spreadsheets that had generated the graphics on the main board.
Cameron was going on. “—well be a diversion or a part of some larger plan, or there may be something we are not seeing. This is not a usual sort of—”
That’s it. Heather typed the numbers in frantically, saw the result, scrolled back, found what she wanted, and highlighted it. She tagged it Inconsistent data / possible ruse and hit SEND.
Cam was saying, “So if there are no more questions—wait. Ms. O’Grainne?”
Heather said, “Based on flight time since Air Force Two left Jayapura, and the time the bodies fell in Thailand, that great circle arc is only about half as long as it should be. On that course at cruising speed, they ought to actually be in the ’Stans by now. And why throw three bodies from a plane over a city, let alone fly low over inhabited areas, when you could have gotten rid of the bodies for literally hours over the sea, or just left them behind in the first place? Especially when their best hope of success has to be in going undetected?
“Look at the consul’s report. They towed a Lion Airways plane into the hangar early that night; I just Goo-22ed photos of Lion Airways planes. They’re mostly white already, and they fly some 737s, which is a twin-engine airliner even if it’s an old one. You’d just need a few hours to repaint the tail and the markings and refuel, then drop bodies somewhere very public. They couldn’t make the timing come out right, and someone who knew something might recognize it was an old 737 and not a new 787, but they probably thought it was worth gambling that we wouldn’t be thinking clearly because we’d be too angry about what they did to our people.”
Cameron froze, which was a good sign; his first instinct, when things didn’t make sense, was always to stop moving until they did.
“It still might have been Air Force Two; those things could be explained,” Mark Garren, the DoDDUSP, pointed out. “Why would they run a whole second operation just as a ruse?”
“Mr. Plekhanov of NSA has a comment,” Cameron said.
Lenny’s good hand trembled as he adjusted his headset. “Timing. There must be something we could do that would make a difference if we don’t waste any time. So the target is only partly the Vice President, since they already have him. They’re going to do something with him and that 787, and they want us to dither before we act. Meanwhile, Air Force Two is going somewhere to deliver the main blow. Look at the edge of the possible area.”
On the big board, slowly, just barely visibly, the curve of the places Air Force Two could have gotten to continued to widen.
“Not Hawaii. Not Australia or anywhere in Asia,” Cameron Nguyen-Peters said softly. “They’d have hit them hours ago if it was a target there. Anchorage just came within reach, Juneau will soon—Marshall, can you do us a geometric, focus on the next areas to become vulnerable in say the next two hours—show us when each part of the West Coast comes in
range?”
“Already working on it, sir, coming up—” a voice said over the speakers.
The screen popped and adjusted, revealing a severely distorted map of the west coast of North America. The familiar coastline had been bent and twisted till it looked like claws reaching into the Pacific. “Nearest targets south of Alaska,” Marshall said, his voice calm and dispassionate over the speakers, “on the great circle routes. First the area around Coos Bay, then Puget Sound, and then gradually down to south California, with a lot of hops and skips because the coast bows out a long way toward New Guinea around the California-Oregon line, and again down by LA.”
Garren drew a breath. “Mr. President, I recommend you activate Forward Sentry West.”
Pendano looked like he was going to throw up, but he turned to the quiet little man carrying the case beside him, and said, “Hand me the football. I certify that I am sane and there is a National Defense Emergency.”
“Authentication: Nineteen,” Garren said, and the football-carrier stepped forward and handed the little black case to the President.
Pendano opened it, placed his hand flat on a reader plate, brought a microphone to his mouth, and said, “Authenticate.”
“Authenticated,” the football said.
“Authorize Forward Sentry West. Not a drill. Mu Nu Brave Walker. Repeat not a drill. Mu Nu Brave Walker. Verify.”
“Authorize Forward Sentry West,” the football said. “Authorization begins in one minute unless intervention—”
“Accelerate. Gamma Omicron Dominant Eagle.”
“Forward Sentry West commenced.”
Pendano handed the football back to the carrier and sank into his chair, rubbing his eyes.
Garren looked around. “You should all know. Plan Forward Sentry West is a joint American-Canadian-Mexican total aerial blockade of the West Coast. All incoming flights will be diverted to quarantined landing fields, if they obey orders; if they don’t, they’ll be shot down.” He looked around and said, “Forward Sentry West will be run out of the Pentagon and NORAD at Cheyenne Mountain. So officially Secretary of Defense Kimura will be taking over. I’m going to request that they leave me here; it’s a mature plan and once a warplan is settled on, as DoDDUSP, I don’t have much to do; forgive my arrogance, Mr. Nguyen-Peters, but I think I’ll be more useful here, where we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”
