by Graham Brown
Despite all the tact and promises Moore could offer, the meeting had ended in rage. “You had no right to ask her back,” Watson had insisted. “I told you that a year ago. God damn you, Arnold. You find her.”
Marcus had been dead set against Danielle going back to the NRI, and Moore had pushed every button he could think of to convince her to do so. The NRI was where she belonged, but that was not to be explained at a time such as this.
“You know I’ll do everything I can to find her,” he’d promised.
“And what if it’s not enough?” Marcus had said.
Moore had no answer for that. It was a contingency he did not want to consider. His old friend had stormed off, slamming the door on his way out with such force that it shook the building.
Now, hours later, sitting in the Oval Office, smoothing his unruly gray hair, Moore waited on another old friend: the president of the United States.
Sitting behind the impressively large desk, the president ignored Moore for the moment, signing a series of papers one after the other.
Slightly older than Moore, with dark hair that the newspapers were desperate to prove was dyed, President Franklin Henderson had been Moore’s superior once before, twenty years earlier, when both of them worked at the State Department. They’d remained friends, if distant ones, ever since. Moore kept Henderson’s trust and respect, partially because he made it a rule never to ask his friend for anything—at least, that was, until now.
The president stacked the papers neatly for an aide to retrieve and then looked Moore in the eye.
“Can’t say I’m happy to see you,” the president began. “Every time you come up here you tell us things we don’t want to know. Why don’t you just stay over in Virginia, or better yet retire?”
“Mr. President, this is my retirement,” Moore said. “This is the reward, or perhaps the punishment, for thirty years of government service.”
“Well, from what I remember you’re not much of a golfer anyway.” The smile appeared as he finished, the same easy, confident smile that had touched so many voters during the election. The one that said, It’s going to be all right.
Unfortunately, Moore knew better. “Mr. President, the NRI has a problem. Two, actually—maybe more. By my count they seem to be multiplying.”
The president looked around. “There’s a reason we’re the only ones here, Arnold. I was told you couldn’t give me any kind of prebriefing. I figured it was serious. What are we talking about?”
Moore pulled two sheets of paper from his briefcase. He placed them on the president’s desk. The first was a satellite photo depicting a fleet of Russian ships, steaming headlong through the Pacific toward Alaska. The second had multiple photos inset with text, showing similar movements from the Chinese navy and even a few merchant ships.
“I’ve seen these already,” the president said. “Talked them over with John Gillis this morning.” Gillis was the navy’s chief of staff. “It’s not like the Russians are going to invade Alaska with a couple of cruisers, a dozen destroyers, and a few reconnaissance aircraft. Nor are the Chinese.”
“I realize that,” Moore said. “It’s obviously not an invasion force. If you look carefully you’ll see that both groups are made up of fast ships only, and both began to fan out as they approached this point, here.” He touched the map indicating a spot in the Bering Sea, near the International Date Line.
“Gillis thinks they’re search parties,” the president said.
“I agree,” Moore said. “Which begs the question: What the hell are they searching for? Does the navy have any idea?”
The president glanced at the satellite photo but remained silent.
Moore pressed him; he needed the information. “Mr. President, I can find no evidence that anything went down in that part of the Bering Sea. No distress calls were recorded on the channels we monitor. There are no oil slicks or debris fields visible in the recon photos. Nor any heat spikes on the continuous infrared scans that would indicate an explosion. There is literally nothing to suggest that either side lost an aircraft or vessel of any kind. And yet both sides launched massive search parties within hours of each other.”
The president was direct. “What are you asking me, Arnold?”
“Do we have any submarines in the area? Do we have any sonar information suggesting either the Russians or the Chinese had a submarine in the area at the time?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t,” the president said. “But why would that matter, unless you think that’s what they’re looking for.”
“I’m not sure what they’re looking for,” Moore said.
“But you have a hunch. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
When intelligence agencies had an idea they went to the president, and when things were amiss they hid in their offices desperately searching for answers before the president or his staff came looking for them.
Moore explained what he knew. “Several hours before the Russian fleet launched, we recorded a gamma ray event in this exact location. Not a big burst by any stretch of the imagination but an unusual type of energy, for certain.”
“Gamma rays?” the President asked. “I went to law school, Arnold. Mostly because I didn’t like science. So why don’t you tell me what this means in layman’s terms?”
“Gamma rays are high-energy electromagnetic waves,” Moore said. “They’re used for many different things, including a type of nuclear surgery, or as hyper-powerful X-rays that can see through walls and steel containers. There’s even research being done on ways to use them as weapons, either to bring down missiles or to use against troops.”
The president seemed impressed. “Why didn’t Gillis tell me this?”
“He wouldn’t know,” Moore said. “His satellites don’t scan for this type of thing. The data I’m showing you comes from an NRI bird launched earlier this year.”
As the president absorbed the information, Moore continued.
“At almost that same instant, four of our GPS satellites, all in geosynchronous orbits over the Arctic Circle, went momentarily dark, forcing automatic resets to bring them back on line. The service interruption lasted less than a minute, but the event was recorded.”
He handed another printout to the president. “As you know, the GPS works by sending signals coded to the atomic clocks on board each satellite, which allows for very accurate time and distance measurement. According to the logs, the satellites went down all but simultaneously, to the billionth of a second. It’s impossible for any ground-based system to be timed that accurately into four different locations.”
“Which means?”
“They were taken out by a common event.”
The president looked at the paper and then up at Moore. “You think this was a weapon of some kind, based on a submarine. Maybe something went wrong, an overload of some kind. An event like that would likely destroy the platform itself, with the search parties scrambling for the wreckage.”
“That’s one possibility,” Moore said, though there was another that he didn’t want to get into. “Both Russia and China are working on energy weapons, just like we are. Either of them could have had a test bed out there.”
The president slid the papers back over to Moore. “All right, Arnold. What do you need to follow this up?”
“I need time and access. I want the keys to the NSA’s data vault, and control of the listening posts and the Pacific sonar line. And I need it done with a block on data sharing and without having to field stupid questions from NSA, CIA, or anyone else for that matter.”
The president reacted as if he’d been punched. “Damn, Arnold, why don’t you just ask for their firstborn while you’re at it?”
Moore didn’t respond. At times in the past, he and the president had spoken about the NRI’s unique role in the intelligence system. And whether it was because of their friendship or the value that the NRI provided, the president had always supported Moore when it was needed.
“I
can give you everything but the sonar line,” President Henderson replied. “With the Russian fleet prowling around, Gillis will go apeshit if we block him, but I’ll have the navy forward the information to you. You have forty-eight hours. And don’t be surprised if I shorten the leash or if events supersede your request.”
Moore nodded. It would be enough to start with.
“And now for the second problem,” he said, folding his notes and putting them away. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Personal?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Moore replied. “One of my people has been kidnapped. I have reliable data implicating a group working for Chen Li Kang, the Chinese billionaire. I want to go after her.”
The president’s face turned grim. “Right now? With all this going on?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Why?”
Moore was surprised by the question; he thought the answer was obvious. “What do you mean ‘why’?”
“Does she have information that they could use against us?” the president asked.
“No,” Moore said. “Nothing that’s not compartmentalized. But she deserves better than being left to Kang. In his hands, she’s as good as dead … or worse.”
The dark look on the president’s face spoke volumes. “You and I have both taken that risk in our lives,” he reminded Moore. “It’s one of the hazards of being an operative.”
“She’s not just an operative,” Moore said, reluctantly. “She’s someone I dragged back into the business personally.”
The president paused. “What are you telling me?”
“It’s Danielle Laidlaw,” Moore said.
The president winced. Moore knew Henderson would recognize the name, that he would understand what Danielle meant to him: the daughter he never had, a protégée he now lived vicariously through in some ways. He hoped that would sway the president’s decision, but if it moved the needle at all, it wasn’t far enough.
“Arnold, you knew the answer to that question before you came in here,” he said. “Things with China have been spiraling for years. New kid on the block flexing his muscles, waiting for a chance to show the old boss that his days are numbered. This isn’t the time to stir that up.”
“Kang’s not a member of the government,” Moore pointed out. “He’s a private individual, a Chinese citizen who’s kidnapped an American citizen.”
“There are no private individuals when you get to his status,” the president said curtly.
“We can do it quietly,” Moore said insistently.
“This discussion is over,” the president said.
Moore took a deep breath. He knew better than to press an argument he could not win.
As he relented, the president threw him a bone. “We’ll work through back channels. We’ll talk to a few people.”
Moore nodded, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He stood. “I’ll update you regarding this gamma ray burst as soon as I have anything.”
Moore turned to leave and the president looked back to his stack of documents, grabbing one that he’d yet to review. Without looking up, he spoke.
“You don’t think there’s a connection between these two things?” he asked.
Moore had been in the intelligence game long enough that withholding information came naturally to him. One volunteered nothing, not even to the president of the United States.
Now the president looked at him. “Chinese fleet racing through the Bering Sea. Chinese billionaire kidnapping one of your people from Mexico. Is there a link in there somewhere?”
“Let’s hope to God not,” Moore said.
“Why?” the president asked. “What were your people working on down there anyway?”
When Moore spoke, his tone was both glib and deadly serious. “In a manner of speaking, Mr. President, the end of the world.”
CHAPTER 4
Western Congo, December 2012
The battered jeep rambled down an uneven dirt road, a ribbon of red clay that twisted through the dark green foliage of the lower jungle.
The jeep had no doors or roof, but it carried some minor armored plating around the engine and a .50-caliber machine gun mounted atop the roll bar. It also carried three men: an African driver and his fellow gunner, wearing dark camouflage, and a white man in the passenger seat, whose own fatigues were stained with blood, sweat, and smoke and whose tanned face was coated with soot and grime.
Looking as if he’d just come from fighting a fire, he slouched in the seat, turned outward at an angle with one foot resting on the jeep’s running board and a long-barreled SIG 551 assault rifle resting in his hands.
His manner brought to mind that of a weary soldier daydreaming, but behind the dark sunglasses, his eyes were moving constantly, flicking from one section of the trees to the next, scanning up and down the dusty, reddish road.
He didn’t see anything to alarm him, hadn’t seen anything on the entire drive. And that bothered him. He’d expected at least one more wave of resistance.
He turned to the driver and asked in an American accent, “How far to the village?”
The African driver kept his eyes forward, a tense determination never leaving his body. “A mile or two,” he said. “We will be there soon enough, my friend. I promise you, the Hawk does not need to fight anymore today.”
The man, whom the others called Hawker, turned away from the driver and stared down the curving road. They’d been through hell to get this far and some instinct deep inside told him the work might not be done.
He glanced backward over his shoulder at the small convoy following them. Two hundred yards behind, a group of trucks filled with medical supplies, grains for planting, and sacks of rice traveled in single file. Accompanying the trucks were a pair of vans filled with doctors.
They were brave men and women who’d come here, beyond the reach of their governments, beyond the reach of the UN, in a valiant effort to treat the maimed and the wounded of Congo’s endless civil war.
He admired them. They abhorred fighting enough to risk their lives trying to stem its carnage in some small way. And yet they were conflicted now, having seen it up close for the past few days, not as observers or angels of mercy, but as prisoners and victims and combatants.
Hawker could feel the change in them. They looked at him differently now, avoiding eye contact or any real conversation. Perhaps he and his men were part of the problem instead of part of the solution.
To be honest, he didn’t care what they thought. In a few minutes, a village that had been under siege for years would be seeing food and medicine and a break from the constant predation of the strong against the weak.
The jeep rounded a long, sweeping curve and the village came into view directly ahead of them. It was nothing more than a ramshackle collection of corrugated tin and, in places, mud-walled adobe buildings.
At the center of the village, the dirt road turned a circle. A simple wooden church stood off to one side, its steeple and walls bearing the scars of bullet holes below a white painted cross. In front of it stood the town’s most prized possession, a solar-powered pump that drew clean water from a thousand feet below.
He’d expected people to be gathered around it, but the fields and the village appeared empty, and all was quiet as Hawker and his compatriots rolled in.
Hawker’s jeep rounded the circle at the center of town and slowed to a stop.
With the engine idling and the vehicle’s nose pointed toward the safety of the dirt road, Hawker and the two men with him watched for any sign of movement. He brought a walkie-talkie to his mouth.
“Hold the convoy,” he said quietly.
A double click told him the message had been received. He placed the radio down.
The smell of a cooking fire lingered in the air, but there was no noise or movement. Hawker turned to the driver. “I thought you said someone would be here to meet us.”
The man looked around nervously. “My brother is here,” he s
aid. “Somewhere.”
Across the plaza, the door to the church cracked open.
“Cut the engine,” Hawker said.
As the rumbling of the exhaust died away, the door opened farther. A moment later two men stepped out: one dressed in the garb of an Anglican priest, the other in a loose gray shirt and black pants.
“Devera,” the driver shouted as he jumped from the jeep.
The man in the gray shirt smiled broadly. “Brother,” he said. They reached out and clasped in a strong hug.
“Did you bring the doctors?” Devera said. “Some of the people have been wounded in the fighting.”
“We brought them,” the driver told his brother excitedly.
Hawker clicked the radio. “It’s clear,” he said. “Come on in.”
Moments later, the trucks entered the town accompanied by additional armed jeeps and the two vans with red crosses painted on them.
Devera and the priest watched the vehicles pulling in.
“We were told that Jumbuto had stopped you,” Devera said. “Most of the people fled, fearing a reprisal.”
Jumbuto was the local warlord. And he had stopped them, ambushing the convoy after promising free passage. His men had killed two of the drivers and one of the guards and had then kidnapped the doctors, hoping to ransom them to their relatively wealthy families back in Europe and America.
Hawker and his people had gone after them, something Jumbuto had never expected. Forty-eight hours later, the warlord was dead, his garish compound burning in the hills. The few of his men who had survived were running for their lives.
It had been a bloody, horrible battle. Thirty men had been killed, four of them Hawker’s people. Three others were badly wounded, but the siege had been broken.
“He did cross us,” the driver said, “like the snake he’s always been. But he won’t do it again. I tell you we killed him,” he said excitedly. “I saw it with my own eyes.”
Devera looked thrilled, the priest less so. “You see, Father, I told you about this one.” He pointed to Hawker. “I told you he would get through.”
