by Brad Taylor
“That’s just great.” He stood up and stretched. “Let’s go see what the Beltway’s knee-jerk reaction is to the blackout. Deal with this later.”
They exited the building into a parking garage in Arlington, getting into a nondescript Toyota sedan. George said, “You going to brief them on the penetration?”
“Yeah. I suppose I have to, but I’ll wait until after they finish hyperventilating about the GPS constellation. It’ll probably cause three or four heart attacks.”
* * *
Forty minutes later he entered the conference room in the Old Executive Office Building, feeling like he’d just left it. Ordinarily, Kurt and George briefed on a quarterly basis, getting approval for operations that were drawn out and boring but by their very nature had significant risk of United States exposure. At least that had been the framework. Now it seemed they spent more time briefing because of some crisis than they did controlling the long-term efforts that were the core of what the Taskforce did.
He saw five men in the room, unofficially called the “principals” of the Oversight Council. It was a moniker that had grown out of the power and experience the men brought to the table. While all thirteen appointed members of the council were needed to approve any Taskforce operation, these five men routinely met to discuss the operations’ implications, and 90 percent of the time, the rest of the council fell in line with whatever they wished.
Alexander Palmer, the president’s national security advisor, said, “Thanks for coming.”
Kurt said, “It’s becoming routine. What’s the damage?”
“For actual loss of life, pretty much what you see on the television. A 757 crashed, killing everyone on board. It’s being blamed on a computer malfunction in the tower, but the cause of that malfunction is still unknown. To the public, anyway.”
“And nonlethal damage?”
“We’re still trying to assess, but it’ll be in the billions of dollars. The secondary repercussions to our national air transportation alone were significant. Every major airport in America was affected, and while it was very brief, it caused a lot of panic, but luckily no other catastrophic events. Everywhere else worked fine with the legacy systems. Beyond that, we had an enormous amount of lost bank transfers and credit purchases, power outages, downed cell phone signals, and a ton of other things we haven’t even begun to assess. It’s a mess. Nobody knew how far the GPS signal had extended into our national framework.”
Kurt nodded toward the secretary of defense. “I thought there was no way anyone could affect the constellation. Jam individual signals, but not affect every signal.”
The SECDEF said, “It wasn’t every signal. As far as we can tell, the glitch affected only the satellites orbiting over North America.”
George Wolffe said, “Glitch? Is that what we’re saying? This was an accident?”
The director of the CIA said, “We don’t know. For six seconds, the satellites spit out a bad timing signal. It didn’t impact any of our operations overseas. All UAVs continued normally, but here, in the United States, it caused a lost link with every drone in the air. If it was done on purpose, it was most likely a test.”
Kurt said, “Well, it looks like it was successful. Can’t you guys figure out the difference? I mean, isn’t there some egghead who runs this shit who can tell? Find out what happened?”
The SECDEF said, “We’re working that now through Second SOPS and Boeing, but so far we’ve come up with nothing. There isn’t anything in the software architecture that shouldn’t be there. It’s like the satellites had a Tourette’s moment, then went back to normal.”
“So what’s next?”
“We’ve scrubbed everyone in the squadron and they’re clean. Nobody is on leave anywhere near El Paso or anything else that sends a spike, which is what I expected. Those guys live and breathe space operations and take it very seriously. No way would they be involved in an event like this. It’s something else, and we don’t have a thread. All we’ve got is what you have.”
“You mean Jennifer’s theory about her brother? Seriously? That’s the best we can do?” Kurt looked at the D/CIA. “You guys don’t have anything? What about the Hezbollah team?”
“They’re in Mexico City, but that’s all we know. No linkages to this at all other than the timing. The council’s already given execute authority to explore further. We’re wondering what your next steps are.”
Earlier, Kurt had sent them the situation report from the second hit, so he knew they were fully aware of the dry hole as far as Jack Cahill was concerned. What surprised him was that they were willing to continue in the face of so little evidence that it wouldn’t do any good whatsoever. Running amok in a foreign country conducting lethal operations was not something they should have been doing. Maybe once, when there was a distinct threat and a payoff, but twice with nothing in return was pushing the limit.
He said, “Honestly, I was going to tell Pike to stand down. We’ve conducted two overtly hostile actions in an allied country. On top of that we have no cover for action whatsoever down there. If Mexico investigates any of it we’re in hot water. There is no backstopping.”
Kurt saw Alexander Palmer look around the room, getting a nod from each man present. He said, “We don’t want you to stand down. We want you to continue full bore on the problem.”
What the hell? Because we’re the right tool or just the easiest tool?
Kurt replied, “Uhh . . . yeah, well you realize we’re coming dangerously close to compromising the project, right? Maybe we should discuss this with the full council. Put other agencies in play. Get the State Department to lean on Mexico to produce Jack or get the DEA to start working it.”
“We don’t have time for that, and engaging them would mean pulling you off. We can’t do both, and you already have a lead. Something we can work with. It’s slim, but you haven’t been compromised yet doing operations that were worse than these. Remember what Pike did in Europe a couple of years ago?”
Kurt said, “Yes, sir, I do, but the situation’s a little different now. Someone is probing all of Project Prometheus’s computer networks, possibly making connections that they shouldn’t.”
Kurt laid out what he knew about Anonymous, the YouTube threat, and the potential for the entire effort to be exposed.
Taken aback, nobody said anything for a moment. Finally, Palmer broke the silence. “I thought your cover backstopping would prevent this. Isn’t that the whole reason we created such a gigantic beast?”
“It will, to a point, but the actual protection was hiding below scrutiny. If anyone really wanted to dig into one of our companies, like Grolier Recovery Services, they’d find something that was a little off-kilter. I mean, seriously, the only way to look exactly like a real business is to be a real business. You can’t do what we do without looking a little strange.”
The SECDEF said, “That’s not what you briefed when we started this. We were told it would be untraceable.”
Kurt looked at the D/CIA for support, the one man in the room who should have understood. When he received no help he said, “Nothing is untraceable, especially nowadays. Shit, the CIA had their rendition flights cracked by a bunch of amateur tail-watchers at airports. They did everything right and someone made a connection between a flight taking off in Pakistan and one landing in Egypt. Next thing you know, the entire history of the aircraft is out, mainly because of the interconnections on social media.”
All looked toward the D/CIA for confirmation. He sighed and said, “He’s right. There’s only so much you can do. There will always be a digital trail that someone can piece together. The best defense is not giving them a reason to start piecing. Which begs the question: Why is someone probing Grolier?”
Kurt said, “We have no idea, and we’re looking hard. Whoever it is is pretty damn good. We’ve got the best hackers in the world and they can’t track th
em back. The bottom line is someone is probing our networks. If that YouTube video comes out and CNN smells a story, they’re going to be all over Grolier Recovery Services. It’ll stand up to basic scrutiny, but it won’t survive if Pike’s still in Mexico chasing after drug cartels. It’ll be the crack that breaks the dam, leading back here, to this room.”
Alexander Palmer said, “The video isn’t being released for four days? Is that what you said?”
“Yeah, most likely because they don’t have any smoking gun yet. They’re still digging.”
“So you’ve got four days to figure out this GPS thing, then get back here and smile for the CNN investigation. Sounds like a normal Taskforce day for Pike Logan.”
“Don’t put that on him. We don’t pay Pike to make decisions on the fate of the organization. He’ll do what we say, but only because we say it. Don’t put him in the cross hairs like that unless you’re willing to back him up when it goes to hell.”
Everyone remained silent, understanding the insult Kurt had just thrown out. Palmer said, “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. You created this organization for a reason, and that reason is here. Continue with the search.”
“Sir, in good conscience I need to formally state that I’m not sure I can handle the repercussions. Suppose CNN takes a cursory look at the CEO of Grolier Recovery Services’ flight history? They’ll find that both Pike and Jennifer flew to Turkmenistan on a leased G-Four belonging to the company, but flew home separately on commercial birds, only they didn’t go home, they went to El Paso, then traveled by car to Mexico, where the G-Four linked up with them. It’ll stink to high heaven.”
Alexander Palmer raised his voice for the first time. “Then I guess you’d better stop that YouTube video from getting out. In the meantime, find out who’s fucking with our GPS constellation. Is that clear?”
Kurt glared at him, wanting to say what he knew he should not. Understanding he was on fragile ground after he’d bucked this very council six months before, he settled for “Yes, sir.”
Palmer softened his voice. “Kurt, we get the threat to the organization, but it’s nowhere near the damage of someone having a remote control to our GPS constellation. I can’t believe you’re fighting us on this.”
“Sir, I understand, and I’m not fighting the fact that it’s dangerous. I just don’t think I can do anything about it. The thread you’re talking about is nothing. A rumor that Jennifer believes.”
“Then I guess we’re fucked, because Jennifer’s brother is all we have.”
42
Booth walked through customs, shocked at the lack of English-speaking people. It was a boiling mass of humanity, but everyone he attempted to engage simply smiled and shrugged. It was disconcerting, to say the least. He’d been to Europe and the Far East, and in both those locations, while he definitely felt like an outsider, most everyone spoke at least some English. Here, nobody did.
And they live just across our damn border.
He exited with a throng of people, then stood, looking around in a daze. A man came up and said, “Taxi?”
He said, “You speak English?”
The man repeated, “Taxi?”
Booth said, “Yes, yes. I need a taxi.” And began following him out the door. He walked five feet before a policeman intervened, shouting at the man. Bewildered, Booth simply stood, watching the exchange. The unlicensed cabby took off at a fast walk, and the policeman handed Booth an envelope.
He opened it, seeing instructions from Carlos to take the metro to a stop called Insurgentes. Taken aback, he said, “Where’s Carlos? Why did he pass me this?”
The policeman simply stared at him. Seeing he was getting nowhere, Booth said, “I don’t know where the metro is.”
The policeman scowled and walked away. Booth saw a line at the end of the hall, ending at a glass window with a woman behind it. Most of the people were Hispanic, but a few were foreign. He joined them, and when he reached the front, he found to his relief the woman behind the glass spoke English. She asked where he was going, and he said he wanted the metro.
She said, “This is the taxi line. The metro is at the other end of the hall.” She gave him instructions, then turned to the next person in line before he could assimilate them. Brushed aside, he left the counter.
He fumbled about, following the directions to the best of his ability while dragging his little carry-on suitcase, and eventually found the stairs leading to the Terminal Aérea metro stop.
Reaching the bottom, he was once again confused as to what to do. The place was a dirty, swirling mass of humanity. He watched people go to a counter behind glass, not noticing that several men were now studying him as well. A plump, lost gringo wading into a school of piranhas.
As instructed, he bought a ticket to the Insurgentes metro stop, then moved to the train platform. When it arrived, he was swept on board with everyone else, all Mexican and all rattling in Spanish. He took a seat at the end of the car, crammed in by the people continuing to board. Three men were hovering over him, two looking out and one staring at Booth.
The Mexican above him said, “Gringo. Where you go?”
Booth stared at the floor. The man poked him with a shoe. “Gringo. I talking to you.”
Booth said, “I’m meeting a friend. Please, leave me alone.”
The man pulled out a knife and said, “Pay tax. Gringo tax.”
At the sight of the knife, Booth recoiled, blubbering. The man leaned in, his stench flushing what little fresh air there was on the train. He said again, “Pay tax.”
Booth stabbed his hand into his pants, pulling out his wallet. He looked about, waiting on someone to stop the mugging, but nobody seemed to notice. He withdrew all of his cash and handed it over, his hands shaking.
The Mexican said, “Computer.”
Booth hugged his laptop to his chest and shook his head. The man lowered the knife until it was level with his eyes and repeated, “Computer.”
Booth looked left and right, hoping someone would help but seeing that nobody was paying them the least bit of attention. In fact, all were studiously looking away. The train pulled into the next station, and the mass began to ebb and flow. The two men closed off their corner, preventing anyone from interfering with the mugging.
People packed into the car, the brief emptiness filled with soiled shirts and dirty feet as the riders crammed together. The man traced Booth’s ear with the knife, and that was enough.
Booth flung the laptop at him, shouting, “Take it, and leave me alone!”
The man grinned, showing a jack-o’-lantern mouth with the front teeth missing. He turned, saying something in Spanish to his compadres, then grunted. Magically, a knife had grown out of his stomach, the area around the hilt growing black with liquid. He sat down heavily, and Booth saw the laptop jerked from his hands. He followed the arm and recognized Carlos standing above the downed mugger.
Carlos hissed at the mugger’s two friends and they disappeared through the open door. He grabbed Booth’s arm, jerked him to his feet, and followed suit, exiting just before the train left for the next stop.
Carlos said, “You’re two hours late and you took the wrong train. Idiot.”
As he walked up the stairs, gasping for air, it was almost too much for Booth to absorb. He said, “I’m late because of a plane crash at the Denver airport. Didn’t you see the news? Every damn flight is late coming out of Denver because of it. Why did you change the instructions? Why aren’t I meeting you at the hotel?”
“No. I didn’t see the news.” Getting to street level, Carlos grinned. “I thought maybe you were working for the US Federales, but I think it’s safe to say your stupidity proves otherwise. Either way, we aren’t going to the hotel I sent you. You’re just lucky my people kept an eye out for you.”
“Federales? What are you talking about?”
“Noth
ing. You have the protocol?”
“Yes, I have it. Of course.”
They walked down an alley toward a dented sedan with the trunk held in place by a rope. Carlos motioned for him to get in.
Driving west, Carlos said, “I’m going to want you to show me how it functions.”
“I don’t think that’s smart. I’ve already tested it with my own GPS and it works. Every time you do that, you give them a chance to plug the holes. Trust me, it worked. Better than I expected. I think I caused the plane crash in Denver. You pay me for it, and then you can launch it after I leave. After I’m back in the US.”
Carlos slammed the brakes and threw the car into park on the side of the road. He turned to Booth, baring his teeth. “You need to understand something. You belong to me now. You will do what I say, or I’ll turn you loose right here. You’ll last about an hour after I make some calls.”
Booth recoiled, nodding his head over and over again, the fear of this newfound world making him wish he’d never boarded the plane. Making him wonder if Bradley Manning or Edward Snowden had ever put himself in danger like this. The thought brought a small tendril of pride at his audacity. Small, but large enough to give him the courage to continue. He might not make any money on POLARIS, but he’d at least get it released. Others could talk the talk, but he was walking the walk. Snowden and Manning had garnered a legion of people preaching their hero status. What Booth was doing would be exponentially better.
Carlos started driving again, saying, “I really don’t care what happens to you after I get POLARIS, but you’ll care a great deal if the thing you brought doesn’t work. You’ll care for hours, I promise.”
The words sucked the courage out of Booth like a dental vacuum rooting around a mouth.
They drove in silence for another twenty minutes. Then Carlos pulled against the curb next to a run-down building of crumbling brick surrounding two roll-up doors.
He said, “Follow me,” and walked up a narrow stairway on the side. At the top, he held the door open, letting Booth enter. Inside was a one-room flat with a sofa bed and a corner kitchenette, the toilet in the back competing with the rest of the space with its odor alone.
