PointOfHonor

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Arthur stifled a yawn, wondering how much longer he would have to endure the NSA and wait on a cavorting President. “Must have missed this during high school history?”

  “It’s all quite fascinating. They sat around during their luncheon and picked out the target list for the next week’s bombing raids against North Vietnam. You could hit this airfield, but not this SAM site. You can bomb this bridge, but not this road. It drove the Air Force and Navy guys nuts. It also got a lot more people shot down. Now think about this place.” He waved his hand towards the corridor.

  Arthur followed his lead and muttered, “They don’t do anything around here without a poll or focus group.”

  The NSA clasped his hands together. Once again, Arthur recognized the direction of their conversation without having to be told. “Precisely! Everything in this White House is driven by polls. They stick a finger in the wind and figure out how to screw the loyal opposition, and how to frighten old people—threaten to throw grandma out on the street. They tell people the Republicans want to starve kids by cutting the school lunch dollars. Oh, it’s positively brilliant. Except for one thing: you can’t run foreign policy the same way.”

  Arthur nodded, wondering what this had to do with the mission to Iraq.

  “So what happens if we find ourselves in a shooting war with Iraq?” He paused for effect. “Do you think they’ll be smart enough to turn over target selection and management to the Joint Chiefs?” He chuckled cleverly and rubbed his hands together. “Of course not! There’s no way this group would want to share limelight with a Stormin’ Norman. No, these are liberals who think they can remake Kennedy’s Camelot. They’ll want to pick the targets.”

  Understanding blossomed across Arthur’s features. “You mean they’ll have a target selection committee.”

  The NSA nodded gleefully. “Of course! The second Gulf War will be handled straight out of the West Wing. No one is going to share the thrashing of Saddam with generals and admirals. As long as they keep the casualty counts low and have those spectacular TV pictures, everyone will be happy.

  “So wouldn’t it be nice if we happened to have the right targets?” he suddenly finished.

  Arthur nodded. “Sure. You let them have some near misses or a few spectacular blunders, then you spring the list on them.” Arthur enjoyed the thought of most of the cabinet caught flat-footed.

  “Now you understand why this mission is so important. We’ll be the heroes, and State will be the goats. We make the right moves and save some navy pilots from being shot down over the wrong targets. Best of all we actually nail Saddam, and the spin masters have a field day. Time it right and we might even get the House back in the mid-term elections next year.

  “Remember how popular Bush was after the Gulf War? If he could have stood for election in ’91 instead of ’92, you and I wouldn’t even be sitting here. That’s how we sell this to President. We tell him his legacy will be the elimination of one of the worst dictators in history. Oh, we don’t have to go overboard, but we can play the Jewish card. After all, we’ll tell the world Saddam had his missiles full of bio-germs aimed at Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. The Israelis won’t contradict us. They’ll be glad the bastard’s dead.”

  Arthur rolled his eyes towards the corridor and the Oval Office beyond. “What about his penchant for chasing skirts? I mean we see this happening increasingly often these days.”

  The NSA dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “It’s been going on for a long time. The media isn’t interested in what he does. The public had their chance to trounce him and elected him President instead. It’s a non-factor.”

  Arthur kept his peace about the rumors. The money was good and it was building up to a tidy sum in the Cayman Island bank. The scandals and dead people seemed to follow this President around, but never had he suffered for his foolishness. Quite the contrary, his critics were always considered off the wall, right-wing nutcases.

  A Secret Service Agent stuck his head in the office and indicated the President was free. The two men got to their feet and followed the agent to the Oval Office. They walked passed the American Western statues and presidential portraits towards the very seat of power. A Marine Captain sat on a chair outside the Oval Office, the briefcase with the nuclear launch codes handcuffed to his wrist. The nuclearfootball was never beyond the immediate reach of the President.

  A second agent opened the door to the Oval Office and they passed from the outer sanctum to the President’s quarters. It reminded Arthur of a throne room with the royal blue carpeting emblazoned with the Presidential Seal, and the massive gold drapes hanging behind the President’s desk.

  The President was dressed casually in a short sleeved polo shirt and khaki colored slacks. The presidency had changed since Ronald Reagan, who always appeared for work in the Oval Office in a suit and tie out of respect for the institution and honor for the men who came before him. He got up from behind his desk, towering over the other two men, and welcomed them to sit down. His effusive charm disarmed both men as the NSA handed him the Finding explaining, “This justifies the mission we started in response to the Chinese submarine this morning.”

  The President read quickly through the document asking, “Anything new on the Chinese sub?”

  “No, sir. We’ve repositioned our attack boats to make sure it can’t leave the Gulf, and we are actively looking for it with carrier based anti-submarine warfare planes,” explained the NSA.

  He nodded, and fixed his NSA with an earnest gaze. “And if we find this submarine, what do you think we should do about it?”

  Arthur was wondering the same thing himself. What good did it do to hunt them down, if the final solution meant nothing?

  The NSA met his President’s gaze and explained, “We give them the chance to surface and be boarded. Failing that we force them to the surface and check her out.”

  “Failing that?”

  Without blinking an eye he explained, “We should let her escape the Gulf and sink her in deep water. Claim it was tragic accident, and send our condolences when the news leaks out.”

  The President turned to Arthur, “Do you agree with that?”

  This was no time for independent thought. “Mister President, I think we have evidence that some sort of chemical or biological weapon was transferred to the Iraqi government. We believe something went wrong, but we aren’t completely sure what it was. And we have a Chinese sub that may or may not be in trouble. I don’t think they’ll let us board her, so I think we end up with letting her go or sinking her. When the pressure hull explodes, there won’t be any survivors.”

  He walked over to his desk to sign the Finding and asked, “Does this document cover that eventuality?”

  “You mean sinking the Chinese sub?” asked the NSA.

  “Uh huh.”

  The NSA looked at Arthur who shrugged. “I believe it could be construed to mean that.”

  The President handed the Finding back to the NSA and explained, “You make sure whatever sub driver gets picked to sink this Chinese sub understands we don’t want any survivors. I don’t want to have to explain something like this to Beijing. Maybe you could create a story like they have cruise missiles with Anthrax or something.”

  The NSA furrowed his brow. “Mister President are you suggesting—”

  “I think you understand exactly what I’m saying.” He smiled and yawned. “But I need to get some sleep, church tomorrow. Have a good night.” He left them standing in the center of the Oval Office and sauntered through another exit towards the White House family quarters.

  They looked at each other and made their way back out the door they had entered. Arthur noticed a portrait of Abraham Lincoln as they headed back to the NSA’s office.

  The contrast between Lincoln and his successor could not have been greater. Lincoln was remembered for a two-hundred-word speech called the Gettysburg Address, and this man would be remembered for not inhaling. It was hard to imagine the current president using th
e Capitol as a 2000-bed hospital for the sick and wounded—and finally seeking God in the darkest hours of the Civil War. Lincoln’s reward for saving the Union had been a bullet in the back of the head at Ford Theater.

  Arthur closed his eyes as he followed the NSA. They had been given a tacit order to commit an act of war, but were to make sure they did not get caught. The NSA closed the door and said, “Find out which sub is patrolling the Strait. Write up an order to seek and destroy the Chinese sub.”

  “But what about boarding her?” protested Arthur.

  The NSA shook his head. “We can’t risk any communication between the sub and Beijing. The consequences would be too great. Draft the order over my signature and find the Chief of Naval Operations. We’ll make sure she goes down.”

  Arthur nodded and tried to ignore the foul taste in his mouth. He went back to his office to draft another order, and decided it was time to consider retirement.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Odricks Corner, Virginia

  Saturday, November 15, 1997

  11:30 P.M. EST

  Goldenrodset the documents on the table before him. He closed his eyes and folded his hands. He considered what he had read, and the cost he would ultimately pay for the information—one man dead, another injured. The FBI was alerted to his presence, and possibly his own agent—NightHawk—inside the administration.

  There were possibilities to fathom. Had the FBI compromisedNightHawk ? Had they compromised the means of identification and verification? Had they planned an elaborate trap? Had he been lucky or stupid?

  He opened the other file available to him. The one he kept at the safe house where his protectors had hustled him. Access to the Embassy had been cut off. District squad cars augmented by a Marine Emergency Response Team convinced his guardians to move him directly to the safe house. Diplomatic license plates on the Embassy vehicle would not prevent the American counterintelligence services from apprehending him in the act of espionage with the pilfered goods on his person.

  The second file listed the surveillance maintained onNightHawk . There were no sudden absences or anomalies over the past twelve months.NightHawk had accompanied the President’s Party on several foreign tours. The national security product delivered was astonishing in its detail and analysis. The corresponding payments to the Cayman bank account continued.NightHawk continued in his position of trust seemingly disinterested in the accumulated 1.5 million dollars.

  The Defense Intelligence Agency routinely sweptNightHawk’s apartment for surveillance devices.Goldenrod performed a counter-sweep to ensure the checkers did not implant their own surveillance devices. None had ever been found. For appearances,NightHawk retained the trust and respect of his government. Yet, the FBI had been waiting.

  Perhaps they had learned of the dead drop. Considering the incredible array of technology available to American intelligence, it was not inconceivable that some sort of electronic minder had been set up. The Americans tended to deploy high technology in ever-changing configurations. With their cell phones, pagers, and fax machines, they seemed to accomplish more with one man than he could with ten trained field officers.

  Goldenrodconsidered the facts:

  1) The American FBI had compromised the dead drop.

  2)NightHawk’scurrent intelligence product contained the proper identifications and countersigns to verify authenticity.

  3) There was no evidence to support the notion that American counterintelligence had compromisedNightHawk.

  4)NightHawk’s previous intelligence product had provided an accuracy level close to ninety percent. The inaccuracies were mostly minor details subject to change or simply wrong, but no agent ever produced error free product.

  5)NightHawk’s current product needed to be acted on tonight.

  Goldenrodfolded his fingers into a steeple. How odd that an avowed atheist should assume a position of prayer. He smiled, closed the second folder, and returned to the first one.

  He considered the report before him. What possible benefit could American counterintelligence derive by describing a clandestine meeting between the Iraqi and Chinese, the description of an entry team, and the mission objectives? Did they suspect the relationship between their respective intelligence services? Had they surmised some sort of link? Nothing to date suggested they had pierced the veil of indirection so carefully erected. Could the clumsiness surrounding the American elections and their Byzantine campaign finance laws have produced some information nugget?

  Perhaps the FBI had simply been lucky—a coincidence? He dismissed the notion. In his line of work, people who believed in coincidences ended up dead, or worse. The FBI must have known of the dead letter drop prior to tonight’s activities. Again, he found himself confronted with the plentiful supply of American technology arrayed against him. What was another motion sensor or computer system to these extravagant barbarians? Did they stumble upon the dead letter drop and did that lead them to himself and his agent?

  Certainly, there were some intelligence agencies one could dismiss. Many were bureaucratic mazes, but he could not say the same for the FBI. Once aroused, the Bureau would continue to gather evidence and hound witnesses until something simply fell into place. Their forensic labs were legendary. Something had aroused the notice of the Bureau, and nothing good would come from such knowledge.

  No, he concluded, they had not foundNightHawk yet. The Bureau suspected something was amiss. Despite their best efforts, something had aggravated the persistent counterintelligence efforts. The information before him was accurate, he decided. This being the case he must act on it immediately.

  He perused the Q files regarding the action team sent to Iraq. These were incredibly detailed documents listing the biographies and legends used by the men sent into the country. Five of them were one-page summaries, but the team leader—he was something exceptional. He examined the face photograph printed in the upper left-hand corner. His summary ran four pages of covert actions against several nations including North Korea. If this could be believed, the Americans had infiltrated the North Korean nuclear program. Someone still understood the value of human intelligence gathering.

  The greatest problem facing any Western government was the proliferation of technology at a personal level. The computers, fax machines, and cell phones created an atmosphere of instant communication. The success of Microsoft, Intel, IBM, Hewlett Packard, and Oracle created a world of fingertip information. The efficient, secure transmission of voice, data, and video to any similarly equipped node in the world made the transmission of industrial, military, and technological secrets trivial.

  Incredibly, the American government had permitted its own citizens to create data encryption software second to none. A software programmer named Phil Zimmerman wrote a program he calledPretty Good Privacy(PGP) . The National Security Agency quietly approached Mister Zimmerman suggesting that he was a threat to national security. They demanded, in the delicate manner ascribed to heavy-handed, knuckle-dragging Washington bureaucrats, that Phil insert a backdoor into his code so they could read all the messages. The reason being that a single programmer had written an encryption program on his personal computer that essentially defeated the extraordinarily expensive mainframes buried in the Maryland countryside.

  America was founded in part on personal freedom. PGP provided the very real promise that individuals could secure their email from Uncle Sam’s prying eyes. Next, the 1991 omnibus crime bill threatened to make all software manufacturers insert specialtrap doors in their products so the government could read encrypted messages. PGP was released as freeware and became the domain of the hackers roaming through cyberspace. The result was one of the most robust and secure encryption packages available to anyone.

  GoldenrodgatheredNightHawk’s report together. He went across the room to his personal computer. “Shu,” he called.

  Shu entered from the outer room. He was totally bald, and without an ounce of visible fat. He had the appearance of a man
mountain—chiseled features, slate gray eyes, and a thin, humorless mouth. He bowed to his master.Goldenrod’s personal security was Shu’s responsibility. The fact that he had lost a man tonight did not bother Shu. The fact that the FBI was waiting, did.

  “Please scan these documents for me while I prepare my report.”

  Shu took the documents and walked to the scanner—the latest Hewlett Packard model.Goldenrod insisted that no expense be spared to keep his safe house current with the latest American technology. Everything purchased had been acquired using cash at any number of computer superstores in the surrounding counties.

  WhatGoldenrod failed to understand was the very technology he chided the Americans for releasing had helped bring the Soviet Empire to its knees. The free flow of information, goods, and services actually caused the American economy to expand exponentially.Goldenrod believed himself quite clever to use American technology against itself; the same technology could just as easily spark a peasant revolt.

  “It is as you commanded,” murmured Shu.

  “Good, good.” He clicked the mouse pointer on the Netscape icon. The modem clicked on and started dialing up a local Internet service provider. Why pay for long distance, when the Internet provided a simple, albeit circuitous route, to his recipients.

  While Netscape went through its startup and verification routines,Goldenrod encrypted the scanned pages and his report for his superiors in Beijing and a second for his colleagues in Baghdad.

  He clicked back to Netscape and brought up the Messenger mailbox then clicked the New Msg icon. He looked up two addresses, attached the file to both emails, and clicked Send twice. Within a minute, the very sensitive contents were racing in opposite directions through cyberspace.

  Goldenrodhad not required the services of the Embassy’s signals room, or the immunity of a diplomatic pouch. He operated from a secret location connected to an Internet Service Provider (ISP) located in Virginia. For twenty dollars a month,Goldenrod operated an espionage operation totally separate from the Embassy compound.