The Zero Option

by David Rollins

  Once the passengers had disembarked, the plane was pulled off the runway onto the grass. Soldiers climbed all over it with netting, gray blankets and painted plastic.

  Nami shivered violently, the cold seeping into the bandages and the gash in her scalp. The pain was becoming excruciating, causing tears to well into her eyes. The soldiers were forcing the passengers and cabin crew to sit on the freezing tarmac while they removed the six deceased and loaded them onto a truck. People like herself, with wounds or injuries, were not getting treatment.

  The hand luggage was next off the plane, and lined up in rows opposite the passengers. One passenger at a time was made to get up and identify what was theirs. Two of the KAL cabin crew had been drafted into assisting the Soviets with this task, going through the passenger manifest and pointing at the passengers, starting with the people traveling first class.

  ‘The bastards want our passports,’ whispered Lawrence McDonald sitting beside Nami, his teeth chattering in the cold morning air. ‘They want to see who’s fallen into their laps.’

  Nami was suddenly frightened for McDonald. He was right. What would the Russians do with him when they learned he was a United States congressman?

  A soldier detached himself from two others, walked up to McDonald and drove the butt of his rifle into the side of the man’s face. He slumped against her.

  ‘No talk,’ the soldier shouted.

  From the corner of her eye, Nami saw both the flight attendants pointing in her direction. ‘No,’ she said quietly, shaking her head, but the soldiers approached her anyway. They lifted the congressman to his feet and he swayed unsteadily. A soldier urged him forward with a push. The congressman staggered, then regained his footing and moved toward the bags while the flight attendants cowered beside the Russians.

  The telephone conference call had concluded and only the secretary of state, George Shultz, remained on the line. When briefed, everyone could see the opportunity that the Soviets had just handed them. It was a gift, as Ed Meese had succinctly put it.

  ‘It’s just you and me now, George,’ said Clark, glancing at Meese sitting across the table. ‘Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  ‘So what’s really going on here, Judge?’ asked the secretary of state.

  ‘What we’ve got, George, is what we all agreed—the biggest single public relations opportunity to have come along in years. And if we manage it correctly, we can punish the Soviet Union like never before.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. You know as well as I do that 747s don’t fly hundreds of miles off course, let alone just happen to pass within spitting distance of the Soviet’s most secret submarine base.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re implying, George. Would you care to speak openly of your concern?’

  ‘Judge, let me just say that this had better turn out as planned.’

  ‘Planned? I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Judge. Give me some credit. Just promise me we’re not going to have another Powers/U2 event on our hands. Something like that could set us back years.’

  Clark remembered the incident from 1960 like it was yesterday, and Shultz was right—there were similarities. Gary Powers, flying a U2 spy plane over the USSR, had been shot down. Washington denied all knowledge of the flight, at least until Moscow produced wreckage from the plane as well as Powers himself and paraded him in front of television cameras.

  ‘There’s a big difference between the Powers incident and flight 007.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘There weren’t any babies on board that U2, George.’

  Garret had been locked in Situation Room A since KAL 007 had disappeared. Information from sources all over the US, Japan and South Korea was flooding in by the moment, much of it contradictory. The Russians were denying they’d shot the plane down, which was the most interesting development. The Japanese had called off the search in the seas east of Hokkaido, centered on the NOKKA waypoint, and were sending ships to search the waters around Moneron Island, an uninhabited rock in the Tartar Strait. If Garret hadn’t known better, from everything going on he’d have believed Moneron was where 007 actually had come down.

  ‘Roy, we’ve just received a call from someone in the State Department. They’ve had an enquiry from a guy called Tommy Toles,’ said Hamilton.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Toles says he’s the press secretary for a congressman by the name of Lawrence Patton McDonald.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I know McDonald.’

  ‘Seems the congressman missed an earlier flight and ended up on 007.’

  ‘No way,’ Garret snorted. ‘I don’t remember seeing his name on the manifest.’

  ‘That’s because it wasn’t on the manifest,’ said Hamilton. ‘The passenger list we had was updated seventy-two hours prior to the flight’s departure. McDonald’s arrangements were rescheduled forty-eight hours prior. Looks like the congressman has just been drafted into the front lines of the Cold War.’

  Colonel Valentin Korolenko opened the door to the office being used to question the passengers, many of whom had been overcome by the stress of their situation, and the stench of vomit rushed out and assaulted his nostrils. The officer behind the desk, a younger KGB man with the rank of lieutenant, stood and snapped to attention.

  ‘Is that his passport, Lieutenant Illich?’ Korolenko asked, gesturing at the document the lieutenant was flipping through.

  ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ The lieutenant presented the blue cover to his superior officer. Clearly visible in silver was the seal of the United States of America: a bald eagle, bolts of lightning in one talon and an olive branch in the other. Above it were the words ‘Diplomatic Passport’.

  ‘I’ll handle this interview.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said the lieutenant.

  He picked up his cap and moved smartly to the door as the colonel took the chair behind the desk.

  ‘Bring him in,’ said Korolenko.

  ‘Immediately, Comrade Colonel,’ said Lieutenant Illich. He turned and strode out the door.

  Korolenko opened the passport, reviewed the owner’s details, and then flicked through it, noting entry and exit stamps for a number of countries including the United Kingdom, West Germany, Venezuela, Iran, Italy and France. He felt vaguely offended by the freedom that allowed someone to move about so easily. It was an uncomfortable emotion, tinged with envy, and he shut it down as he closed the passport.

  There was a slight commotion in the hallway outside the office. Two stocky, broad-faced enlisted men from air force security brought in the prisoner and sat him forcibly in the chair facing Korolenko. They then took a step backward.

  ‘I demand to see a representative of the government of the United States of America,’ the prisoner said.

  Korolenko ignored the plea and took a moment to examine the man seated opposite him. His face was round, a well-fed face, an old scar from his left nostril to the top of his lip. A good-looking man, Korolenko thought, made for television.

  He opened the passport. Lawrence Patton McDonald, born in the state of Georgia, April 1, 1935. That would make him forty-eight years of age. Korolenko glanced up. Despite his disheveled appearance, the man looked more like a young forty year old. He estimated the man to be around 1.8 meters tall, although with his slouched and seated posture it was difficult to be sure. Weight: a little over 105 kilograms. There was much dried blood on his white shirt. A dark red welt spread across the right side of his face and black blood had crusted on his ear. Korolenko doubted the blood on his shirt was a result of the blow to his face—there was too much of it. The look in the man’s dark eyes was intelligent and defiant; whatever he’d received the blow as punishment for, it hadn’t intimidated him one bit.

  ‘Lawrence Patton McDonald,’ said Korolenko, reading aloud from the passport. ‘Patton, the US general. Any relation?’

  ‘I demand to see a representative of the government of the United States of America.’


  ‘Please just answer my questions.’

  ‘You have no right to hold us. One of your men assaulted me. What you’re doing here is wrong. We have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Are you related to Patton, the famous general?’

  The question appeared to faze the American, or perhaps it was Korolenko’s persistence or his reluctance to respond to the American’s demands.

  ‘A cousin,’ McDonald said finally.

  ‘You are a cousin of General Patton’s? Well, I am impressed.’ Korolenko picked up the passport again and flicked the pages past his thumb. ‘You are traveling with a diplomatic passport. Why is that?’

  ‘Where have we landed?’ McDonald asked.

  ‘I will ask you once again. Why are you traveling with a diplomatic passport?’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘What?’ Korolenko called out, irritated by the interruption. ‘Comrade Colonel, we have his luggage here.’

  ‘Bring it in,’ said Korolenko.

  The door opened and the air force security man brought in three suitcases—one large, one smaller and one hand-luggage sized. It was a matching set. Black. The padlocks securing the zippers had been cut. One of the men passed Korolenko a thin black leather satchel.

  ‘This is your luggage?’ the colonel asked.

  ‘Again, I demand that you contact a representative of the government of the United States of America.’

  Korolenko noted the man’s sudden anxiety. It had something to do with the satchel. He stifled a yawn, opened it and sifted through the documents, most of which appeared to be travel related. He pulled out an itinerary and the hint of a smile animated his lips, dry and cracked by the cold. This McDonald had every reason to be anxious.

  ‘So, Congressman Lawrence McDonald, I asked if this is your luggage?’

  McDonald refused to answer.

  ‘Well, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said finally.

  ‘You are a US congressman?’

  ‘I demand—’

  The colonel cut him off, raising his hand. ‘Yes, yes, of course. You are injured? I will get a doctor to see to your wounds.’

  ‘I’m okay, but there are people out there who are not. And I must strongly protest your treatment of all the passengers. Keeping them out there in the cold all this time is—’

  ‘Do not tell me how to act in my own country, especially toward spies, Congressman.’

  ‘Spies? We’re not spies!’

  ‘I trust your stay with us will not prove overly stressful,’ Korolenko said, tempering his natural inclination to get up, walk around the desk and smack the arrogance out of the American.

  ‘Will you contact the US government?’

  ‘There’s no need. I’m sure your government, particularly your CIA, already knows of your whereabouts.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘In a great deal of trouble, Congressman.’

  The colonel directed a slight movement of his head at one of the security men. Both immediately stepped forward and lifted the American to his feet. In Russian, he told them, ‘Keep him segregated from the rest. I do not want him damaged further. And if he won’t stop making demands, tape his mouth.’

  The security men hustled the American from the room, lifting him between them. Korolenko skimmed through the passport again and then eyed the man’s luggage, wondering what other interesting items it might contain. Before taking the interrogation further, it would pay dividends to know more about the congressman.

  January 24, 2012

  NSA HQ, Fort Meade, Maryland. Investigator Lana Englese had too much on her plate, simple as that. There were other cases she and Sherwood were working on: backing up the FBI’s investigations into a Colombian cocaine lord who appeared to be getting some helpful assistance from a mole within the Drug Enforcement Agency down in Texas; an ongoing investigation into the unlawful financial activities of Kim Jong-il, the crazy-ass leader of North Korea, and his regime; and a program to upgrade and improve the security of the US Navy Pacific Fleet’s signals intelligence. And that was just the big stuff. The rats and mice—paperwork mostly—also took a big chunk of time. So it had been four days since she and Sherwood had interviewed Ben and there hadn’t been time to follow up on it.

  Lana settled herself into the co-pilot’s chair beside Saul Kradich, the operator she’d been allocated. She liked Kradich, though Sherwood couldn’t stand to be in the same room with the guy—one of those stupid alpha male things, probably. She noted that Kradich was still wearing the ratty Indians ball cap from the other day and experienced an uncomfortable flash of him showering in it.

  ‘Where’s Sherwood Forest today?’ Kradich asked.

  ‘Investigator Sherwood’s busy with other cases.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Kradich with zero sincerity as Lana handed him the code for his time, the case code and her swipe card. ‘So, what are we doing?’

  ‘Tracing a call made to a cell phone.’

  He entered her codes into the system and swiped the card. ‘What’s the number of the cell that received the call?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t suppose you’ve got the cell’s serial number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A make or model number?’

  Lana shook her head.

  ‘Hmm, then not so easy. Is there anything you can give me?’

  ‘The cell received the call from the number at exactly 8:12:15 a.m. on Friday, January 20. The receiving handset was stationary at 49 Elizabeth Street, Key West.’

  ‘Did you log the time with that wristwatch?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lana showed it to him, a Seiko.

  ‘How often do you adjust the time? Does it gain or lose?’

  ‘I never change it,’ she said.

  He checked its accuracy against the cesium clock and found the time-piece was running two minutes and twenty-one seconds fast.

  ‘So then, going with the assumption that it keeps consistent time, your actual inbound call time was at approximately 8:09:54,’ he said, jotting down the numbers on the back of a folder. ‘Any idea who the carrier of the receiving handset was?’

  ‘Nope, sorry,’ said Lana.

  ‘Was the call answered?’

  Lana wasn’t sure about that, either. When the cell rang, Ben had reached into the trash, picked it out and turned his back on her. The ringing stopped almost instantly, which meant he could have ended the call. But he could also have sent it to a mailbox. In fact, thinking about it, there were a few options. He could even have accepted the call but not spoken to the caller.

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ she said. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘No, not essential, but knowing the call duration would help narrow the search field. Hmm . . .’ Kradich rubbed his chin and then started working the control screen, a thin panel of gray-colored glass roughly the dimensions of a sheet of paper. Within a few moments, a map of Key West came up on the wall-mounted laser panels, covered with interlocking circles. ‘Those circles represent the footprints of the base transceiver stations for cell phone communications on Key West.’ Kradich tapped in a command and the street map of Key West overlaid the circles. ‘Looks like 49 Elizabeth Street is serviced by two BTSes. Now, what we need is access to the mobile switching center for each BTS.’ His fingers went to work again on the control screen, coaxing, cajoling. ‘Okay,’ he said, speaking as much to himself as to Lana. ‘Fortunately, both BTSes use the one MSC. Yes, here we go. It’s a Nextel MSC. I don’t think they’ll mind if we just lift up the lid and take a peek inside.’

  ‘What are you looking for exactly?’

  ‘Calls transmitted to cell phones serviced by those two base transceiver stations. We’ll look at calls transmitted to cell phones in our footprint ten seconds either side of our target time of 8:09:54.’

  He pulled up a menu of reference codes from the NSA’s vast databank and entered one of them into a box. This activated a Nextel-branded index, which popp
ed up with lists of acronyms that meant absolutely nothing to Lana.

  ‘So, I’ve established the criteria and activated the search engine and we should get . . . Yeah, here we go.’ Fifteen nine-digit numbers appeared in one box, matched with fifteen nine-digit numbers in an adjacent box. ‘If we were doing this for a block in Manhattan, the phone numbers would be in the thousands. These are the numbers that went through the mobile switching center during our search period. The numbers in the left-hand box are the inbound calls, by the way. On the right are the phone numbers of the receiving handsets. You recognize any of them?’

  ‘No. How do we eliminate them to get the one we want?’ asked Lana.

  ‘I’m not sure, but we could go out to dinner tonight and discuss it?’

  Lana gave Kradich a smile. ‘I never date Agency people. It’s a rule.’

  She’d broken a long-standing rule with Harbor and now she’d become almost obsessed with this KAL thing. See what happens, she told herself.

  ‘You’re a nice guy, Saul. And you play that control screen like Beethoven, but let’s just keep it professional. Maybe we could go for coffee sometime.’

  ‘Okay, not quite a rejection. I’ll settle for that. So, let’s do a search on these phone numbers and see which are on contract to a carrier and which are pre-paid. Is it likely your target is using a cell in the hope of keeping the calls low profile?’

  ‘It’s probable, but I’m not certain.’

  ‘Hmm . . . then maybe we shouldn’t use that filter. We risk eliminating the number we want.’ Kradich picked up his pencil and tapped a beat on the front edge of the bench to help organize his thoughts. ‘So, fifteen little Indians hanging on the wall. I don’t suppose you have any idea of the general area the inbound call might have originated from?’

  ‘No, that’s why we’re tracing it,’ she said, working hard to keep the ‘duh’ out of her voice.

  ‘By general area, I mean North America, Antarctica . . . ?’

  Lana shook her head. ‘No. But there’s a good chance it was a new cell.’ Someone had sent Ben the phone and he’d tried to hide it, dumping it in the trash as they walked in. She had glimpsed bubble wrap, cardboard packaging, plastic and a FedEx envelope stuffed in there too.