The US airman called his Captain over and asked plainly, “Why are three RAFSea King helicopters lifting off from Baghdad when their transponders say they should be Bosnia?”
“You’re sure?”
The airman pointed at the confirmation on his screen. The Captain patted him on the shoulder and said, “Good work.” He walked over to another screen and began to vector an F-16 to investigate.
* * * *
The glass door slid open and Harper focused on the digital linear tape (DLT) drive housed on the front panel of the HP-9000 cabinet. “Sergeant, we’re looking for tape cartridges. The backup tapes for anything and everything they have in this place.”
“What do they look like?”
Harper kept a steady gaze on his captive audience. “About the size of a CD case, only thicker. They’re probably brown or black.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stillwell, I imagine the gasoline is getting heavy. Why don’t you set it down over there next to the tall cabinet and find something to tie these boys up with.”
“You’re not going to shoot them?” he asked.
Harper sighed. The inevitable baby killer questions were coming. “I’m a soldier, not a butcher.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, November 16, 1997
7:00 P.M. EST
Mister Jones drove the battered Ford through the White House Gate. Mister Smith gulped a couple more Ibuprofen and chased it down with Diet Mountain Dew. The ache from his bruised ribs and sprained wrist did not make the ride in the smashed Ford any easier. The front hood was a buckled mess. A bungee cord held it in place. They kept a jug of water nearby to fill the radiator after every drive. There was a nasty set of holes towards the top of the radiator where splinters from the wood door had penetrated.
They had a hurried dinner consisting of stale machine food in one of the company’s cafeterias. Louis examined the toxicology report related to the corpse retrieved from the Persian Gulf. Smith and Jones had patched themselves up as best as they could with a medical kit they found in one of the restrooms.
No one had bothered to watch television, but if they had, they would have seen the news footage from the television news crew replayed on CBS, ABC, NBC, MSNBC, Fox News, and CNN. By tomorrow morning, one hundred fifty million people would see the bouncing and blurred videotape from the next-door neighbor coupled with the news helicopter’s aerial portrait. Of particular note would be the shattered corpse of a young woman laying face up in her driveway, a splintered fence, the ugly black top of the FBI’s SWAT van, and a child’s abandoned scooter.
The quiet work required for counterintelligence was noisily beamed across the nation tonight, and newspapers desperate for news on Monday morning were already writing stories that had little relationship to the facts. Nor did it help for an additional vehicle, belonging to the nearest bomb squad, to show up complete with Plexiglas shielded officers approaching a garage with a broken door.
The twenty-four news cycle jumped at the chance to report a real story. By the time Louis got out of the Ford and started towards the West Wing, stringers for theNew York Times , theWashington Post and even theDes Moines Register were on the scene. Some were trying to piece together what really happened, others simply fabricated somefacts. A few heard thespy word and ignored it. The stringer for theNew York Post greedily gobbled up that tidbit and mistakenly attributed the Asian couple as having Japanese origins. Several of the financial networks picked up the rumor, and the Yen dropped perceptibly against the dollar in the Asian markets that were just opening.
Most of the nation ignored such musings and settled down for the Sunday night edition of NFL football on ESPN. The White House media machine was already gearing up to deal with the problem. Three pizza deliveries had already been made to offices in the Old Executive Office Building. It was important the White House get its own version of the story fed to whatever media outlets were listening. No one involved in this effort bothered to learn the facts either. Phone calls were made, copy was faxed, and interviews arranged in a frantic effort to deflect any negative publicity. The FBI Director remained unavailable for comment, although the rumormongers suspected he had plenty to say.
A uniformed Secret Service Officer led Louis through the West Wing corridors to the National Security Advisor’s office. His chief assistant, Arthur, was pouring coffee for the three of them as the door closed behind Louis. Louis shared Jonas’ visceral distaste for Arthur. He let it pass.
The NSA looked up at Edwards and waved him to a seat. He was glowering at three television screens. The broadcast was the top of the news for FOX, CNN, and MSNBC. The coifed CNN anchor said, “This afternoon, a federal raid took place in one of Washington, D.C.’s bedroom communities. An FBI SWAT team rushed this home in Odricks Corner, Virginia.”
The video was from the next-door neighbor showing the van already stopped on the lawn and the muffled shouts and shots could be heard in the background. The battering ram had been abandoned and the front door looked like a yawning black hole.
“Not since the raid in Waco, Texas, against the Branch Davidians have we seen such dramatic footage of Federal Officers raiding a private residence. Two people were killed during the raid, and two FBI agents injured.”
The scene switched to an overhead shot where the uncovered body of the woman lay amidst the broken glass and broken bones. Louis shuddered. He had watched her die.
“Eye witnesses tell us the shooting was over after a few minutes. While FBI officials would not comment at this time, sources close to the investigation claim drugs and weapons were involved.
“The Arlington bomb squad was called to remove several sticks of dynamite from inside the garage. Long time residents were as surprised as anyone that anything was amiss.”
Two flak jacketed bomb squad members were hauling out a gray bomb box. The footage switched to a vacant field where the contents were detonated, causing the bomb box to leap uncomfortably into the air.
The NSA snapped the broadcast off and turned threateningly towards Louis. “I understand you were present for this fiasco.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, “But this was the FBI’s show. American soil and everything.”
He grunted his disapproval.
“Arthur tells me you’ve been a busy boy today.”
Louis let his attention drift over to Arthur. The youngster sat quietly in his own chair with a notepad propped on his knee. Arthur seemed to always be explaining something to the NSA, or providing a report, or going over some briefing materials.
“All weekend, to be truthful,” replied Louis.
The NSA grunted again. “Two Chinese agents—that’s what the FBI is telling me. That right?”
Louis nodded. “Resident agents, deep cover. We stumbled across them around noon today.”
A scowl this time. “I suppose it was necessary to roust these two today. We couldn’t let it wait for a couple days. After all, we deported two of their diplomats today handcuffed to Federal Marshals.”
“Spies, sir,” corrected Louis.
“What?”
“Spies,” he repeated. “The two men deported today were spies with diplomatic passports. If I had my way, they would have disappeared into a company safe house and we would have inquired of their activities,” continued Louis.
“We don’t do things that way. Now they’re comparing this thing to Waco. We don’t need a Waco right now—too close to the holidays and everything. People need to be thinking about turkey and mistletoe.”
Louis wondered when it would be the right time for another Waco. The anger over doing his job and protecting the country did not disturb or surprise him. It was the way the White House worked these days. There probably was not a focus group and accompanying poll to gauge public reaction for this situation. It did not deal with Social Security or the homeless, just the trite matters surrounding national security. He wondered how anyone could lead when they waited to read t
he polls the next morning. After all, the polls dictated the tenor for the next twelve hours, a tenor the White House studiously manipulated overnight.
“So what brings you here tonight?” He gulped some more coffee. The NSA paused, and then demanded, “Why were you tagging along with the FBI today?”
Louis looked up from the briefcase chained to his wrist. “It is my belief that this particular group has a material effect on the current operation inside Iraq.”
The NSA glanced at Arthur snapping, “I thought we called it off this morning.”
A shiver ran through Louis’s spine. His attention shifted back to Arthur.
“We called off all military support after your morning meeting. But the team was already committed to the desert.” He met Louis’s gaze and said regretfully, “I’m afraid you’ll have to write your team off as a loss.”
Something twisted deep inside Louis. This staff member was casually explaining they had kicked the legs out from under his people. Louis cocked his head and turned back to the NSA. “Loss? What do you mean we dropped military support? That’s part of the extraction plan.” He did his best to keep his anger in check.
“Not anymore,” snapped the NSA.
“My team will take exception to such a move.”
“I don’t care if they write Jesse Helms,” he snarled. “They no longer exist. The mission never took place. We’ve already moved on the contingency plans for capture or death.”
“You’re assuming what?”
The NSA waved his hand. “Assume whatever you want.”
“You can’t just cut somebody like Harper loose. It’ll come and bite you in the butt.”
The NSA shook his head and pointed a pudgy finger in Louis’s direction. “Your fancy super soldier is going to have to find his own ticket home, Edwards. Those are the breaks.” He paused and softened his tone. “Look, I know you hate to lose people, but that’s the way it is. We’ve got to get control of events.”
“Events!” exploded Louis. “You call taking down two Chinese agents events? You just sent a six man team into the desert to penetrate one of Iraq’s secret bases and now you won’t lift a finger to get them back out?”
The NSA leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, that’s the size of it.” He waved at the television. “That’s something for the spin masters to deal with. Let me level with you.” The NSA stabbed a button on his remote control and projected a map of the Persian Gulf against a white screen. There was a red target dot in the southern Gulf.
“One of ourLos Angeles attack boats was fired on by the damaged Chinese Boomer,” he paused. “You did hear me when I said boomer. Big nasty submarine capable of carrying a number of ballistic missiles.”
Louis nodded.
“We sank one of their boomers inside the Gulf in the past twenty-four hours. Now, no one in this administration is going to admit we did such a thing. In fact, no one in this room is going to tell the President we sank a missile boat of an emerging superpower.
“This mess gets more complicated when the Chinese Ambassador is on my doorstep this morning upset about his missing boat and his expelled diplomats.” He stabbed another finger in Louis’s direction. “Get used to the idea. Diplomats, not spies! The stinking FBI Director would not budge, so we deported them this afternoon.
“Maybe we could have gotten through this mess okay, if you and the FBI boys hadn’t decide to play Rambo in Virginia this afternoon. I don’t know what the final story is, but we’ll see what our boys in the fourth estate come up with overnight and pick something that suits our version of history.
“Whether you like it or not, China is an important partner on the Pacific Rim. No more red boogey men for this administration. We’re done with that kind of nonsense. You Cold Warriors will just have to get used to it and write your memoirs. We need China relatively strong to hold the Russians and the Japanese in check. What I don’t need is a witch-hunt for Chinese agents under every rock. The Chinese can be our partners or our adversaries. Officially, administration policy is to make them partners.”
Louis looked at the map and whispered, “You sank a Chinese missile boat?”
“Not me—not on orders. Some blood and guts captain patrolling in the southern Gulf.” He shook his hand in disgust covering the lie. “Not much I can do about it. Raise a fuss and force an inquiry. Last thing we need right now.
“But what we can do—and this is where your pet project comes in—is make sure we don’t make any more moves that can potentially embarrass ourlittle Asian buddies —so no official incursion inside Iraq, no embarrassing accusations regarding weapon technology. It ends now, Louis. We lose six guys. They lose a boat and we all ignore history.”
Louis did the calculation and completed the message. “You keep it out of the press and bury the mistake. There never was a U-2 recording a clandestine weapons transfer. There never was aHan Class sub performing the delivery, and there never was a team sent into southern Iraq.” He looked from the map to the NSA. “Have I got that about right?”
The two other men nodded.
He wondered what Harper would do when he found out. Edwards assumed Harper would go hunting for whoever left him stranded in a faraway desert. Unlike the other two men, Edwards had no doubt Harper would prevail in the desert. The question was a matter of cost, and these two had just driven the price to unacceptable levels.
He opened the locks of his briefcase and withdrew a report. “Perhaps this will change your mind.” He handed the bound and sealed report with a code level labeled ULTRA to the NSA.
The NSA took the report as if Louis had just handed him a rattlesnake. “I presume you’ve read this.”
Louis nodded.
“So what does it say? You didn’t come here for your health, and I’m not exactly sure I want to keep this little gem.” He nudged it away from his side of the desk.
“What you have in your hand is a report on the corpse Jonas Benjamin pulled out of the northern Gulf,” he began. “As you know from the photographic evidence, something went wrong during the weapons transfer.” He paused and said surreptitiously, “The one that never happened.”
The NSA winked at him. Had he known Louis Edwards better he might have realized that the NSA had shifted on Louis’s internal tally sheet from good guy to bad guy.
“Yes, well. The indications are that the Chinese delivered a concentrated form of nerve agent derived from0-ethyl S-diisopropylaminomethyl methylphosphonothiolate, better known as VX.
“VX is persistent nerve agent first derived in 1958 and placed into full scale production around 1961. The chemical structure was published in 1972 and today any twelve-year-old can get the chemical composition off the Internet.” The NSA shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“VX is basically an oily substance that is generally absorbed through the skin,” continued Louis. “That’s what makes it such a powerful weapon. It will adhere to grass, trees, cars, and machinery. It can also be converted to a gas for aerosol dispersion. It is fairly stable as these things go, and can persist for several weeks.
“We suspect the Iraqis have a derivation of VX called VX-2. This would be used in a binary weapon where the chemicals mix once the shell has been fired and arrive as a lethal package on target. We are not certain that Iraq has perfected binary technology, but such a derivative makes the manipulation and storage of these types of weapons easier and safer.” Arthur found a spot behind Louis and started to hum restlessly.
“For a couple of years now, we’ve speculated the Chinese might have developed something called VX-Beta. There have been disturbing reports coming out China that an new nerve agent, classified as a permanent toxin as opposed to persistent and non-persistent nerve agents, has been tested on prisoners condemned to death.
“We know they have cordoned areas, within a restricted zone, as completely off limits. It appears they may not know how to decontaminate VX-Beta once it’s been employed. The tests they have conducted are to douse an area, and then send prisone
rs into the area bare foot. A prisoner lasts anywhere from three to five minutes to a couple of hours depending on the concentrations.
“After initial tests, no effort has been made to recover the bodies.”
“You mean they leave them lay.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Louis. “The evidence related to this is the extreme corrosiveness of the agent spilled during the weapons transfer. It appears to have eaten right through the protective gear worn by the Chinese sailors. We also have reason to believe the Iraqis knew what they were getting, and when it appeared things were getting out of hand, they started shooting, hoping to keep contaminated people away.”
Louis checked his audience. Not much seemed to be getting through, so he continued to his strongest argument. “A weapon purported to be a permanent nerve agent could have overwhelming effects on any population center targeted by such a weapon. We believe Saddam has the ability to mount chemical warheads on modified SCUD missiles.
“Impact on population centers such as Tel Aviv or military targets such as an aircraft carrier could have devastating consequences in terms of retaliation. There is no doubt that a chemical attack on Israel would result in an all out nuclear response.
“Primary and secondary casualties in a population center would be substantial. Casualties against a military target could be substantial enough to cripple our capabilities. This is a destabilizing weapon system, and our best bet is to determine where the depots for these weapons are located.”
The NSA steepled his fingers and said quietly, “It’s all very interesting, Louis. However, nothing you’ve reported changes the situation. We know we can’t trust the Iraqi Government to be truthful and honest, and we know we can’t live without the Chinese Government,” he sighed. “After all, what do you think they’re arguing about in the UN today? Saddam just up and declares several sites off limits to the UN inspection team last Wednesday, and by Friday Richard Butler is pulling his teams out.
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