Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  “Goodbye, Rihanna. I’m happy for you,” said a teary-eyed Tasha. The two gazed into each other’s eyes for a moment, then Tasha strode to the car and headed out as she wiped the tears from her face.

  35

  Escape from Iran

  September 7

  Persian Gulf, Iran

  Rihanna knew the risks. One wrong move and she was either shot down, sent back to Japan to face charges for the attempted assassination of Prime Minister Yasuo Fukuda years ago, or executed for robbing the late supreme leader’s safe. Her faith told her she was a new woman; the fact that she’d stolen money from Ahmadi reminded her some habits died hard, particularly since she had now stolen his Airbus Eurocopter X3 as well. Not that he needed it. Perhaps it’s a matter of survival, she thought to herself, justifying her actions, and chuckling as she imagined Tasha’s reaction to the diamonds she’d left for her in the glove compartment with the cash. She took a deep breath, thinking about her friend. Someone who accepted Rihanna for who she was, not for who everyone wanted her to be. Tasha was her best friend.

  Her thousand-mile trek to Bandar Abbas was routine. She wasn’t worried, since nobody would suspect anything unusual about Ahmadi’s helicopter flying through Iran—regardless of his own fate. It was the next stage of her journey that concerned her—getting out of Iran—although Troy had assured her she’d be okay. Not that she believed he was powerful enough to make that happen, despite his surety. But he had gotten her a French passport—as promised.

  Her altimeter currently read 1,200 feet—enough distance from the water to avoid accidentally spiraling into the Gulf because of spatial disorientation. Peering into the darkness of the night, she saw lights on the horizon—a welcome sight.

  Another tanker? Rihanna asked herself. She had seen lights to the west and assumed they were tankers traversing the Persian Gulf near the Strait of Hormuz, the choke point that linked the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman. She was well aware this was where a third of the world’s liquefied natural gas and some 20 percent of the total global oil passed, making it essential for international trade and therefore a popular place for tankers to transition. The island of Abu Musa was also in that direction, but this, whatever it was, was straight ahead, outside the perimeter of tankers. Perhaps it was an American warship, since the BBC had announced that the US had recently shot down an Iranian drone, although US ships weren’t known to be this close to the Iranian side of the Gulf. Still, that wouldn’t be good news for her journey.

  “Chikushō!” she said in Japanese a moment later as a flash burst from the same spot. Instinctively she jerked the chopper to the right, heading away from the flash as a twitch of anxiety flashed through her body. Since the aircraft was not equipped with missile defense or a warning system, she had no idea if a missile was headed her way, or if it was just the beam of a searchlight on one of the warships hitting her at the perfect angle, or perhaps some underground explosion being set off by the Iranians to test weapons. She switched on the horizontal radar, which until now had seemed useless, since the vertical beam kept her altitude in check. Better safe than dead, she thought as her mind raced.

  If it was a SAM missile—at least the Iranian kind—it was flying at Mach 2.5 or better. That was 2,000-plus mph if she was right, giving her less than 30 seconds before she was exterminated—again.

  She moved the throttle forward as far as it would go while pushing the cyclic down, heading directly for the island of Abu Musa, assuming the lights she saw to the west were, in fact, the lights of a giant oil rig crossing the popular island’s tip. She continued watching her altimeter; it remained at 1,200 feet.

  Seconds later she began a mental countdown as the lights of the tanker neared. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . “Please, Almighty One, have mercy on me! I need Your help, again, now!” she said, seeing the giant tanker while disengaging the two props. Cutting her rotor engine while simultaneously holding the stick and pushing the collective down, allowing the chopper to fall from the sky like a brick in autorotation, she disappeared behind the huge tanker. At the proper time, she pulled back on the stick, causing the giant helo to flail, while also pulling the collective up, regaining proper power to sustain altitude a few feet off the water. Pushing the foot pedal on the starboard side, she completed the autorotation, which was the fastest way to descend in a helicopter. It was an emergency technique used primarily for engine failure, but in her case it was to get her out of the way of a missile while confusing it with another target. She felt the giant helo come to an immediate hover on the far side of the tanker whose tower reached 1,000 feet into the sky, as she moved away from the rig at an altitude of 25 feet, but staying as close to the giant ship as possible.

  “Three . . . two . . . one,” she said out loud as she rolled the throttle to its full position, pushing the stick forward and reengaging the twin engines while praying her timing was perfect, if indeed a missile had her in its sights.

  She jerked the stick back to the left.

  Nothing. She took a deep breath. “Huh, maybe it wasn’t a missile . . . ,” she thought out loud. Then the giant tanker exploded, shooting a ball of red and orange flames into the sky, kissing the chopper, which rocked with the impact. Rihanna grabbed the stick with both hands to maintain control as the emergency alarms sounded, indicating extreme motion. She controlled the giant craft and scanned the area, praying no debris would knock the chopper out of the sky. She heard parts of the giant ship crashing into the water around her, but nothing made impact with the Euro.

  “Seinaru garakuta! Thank You, Almighty One!” she shouted again in Japanese, taking a deep breath. She checked her speedometer, which indicated 95 mph and climbing. She glanced over her shoulder to see the water on fire, then headed for Abu Musa, her arms shaking from the adrenaline. For the first time, she felt guilty about her choices that likely cost others their lives.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as a rock formed in her gut. “Please forgive me, Emmanuel,” she prayed, remembering she was still a sitting duck, but convinced the Lord was on her side. “And please help those people who may have been on that ship,” she asked as another shot of guilt electrified her body. She’d done what she always did: saved her ass while others died. She dismissed the thought for the sake of survival, although she doubted it was gone for good.

  “I can’t land on Abu Musa, can I?” she mused out loud, glancing at her GPS. She knew it was Iranian territory, but she needed to get out of the country if missiles were flying. “Qatar,” she said confidently. She adjusted her course, maintaining her altitude of 30 feet to avoid detection but staring at her altimeter since the darkness hid the line between the water and the air once again.

  An hour passed without incident. Eventually she saw enough lights to know it was the shore of Qatar. Her GPS showed that the closest airport without conveniences, which meant without people, was 20 miles to the northwest. Moments later she touched down at a small, uninhabited landing strip in a concealed area, jumping out of the craft and kissing the ground. She noticed she was shaking uncontrollably. Tears flowed from her eyes as the trauma of the events caught up with her. She took several deep breaths, remembering the Promised Land was 4,000 miles away. She couldn’t let life deter her now.

  

  36

  Harpers Ferry

  The Pentagon

  Washington, D.C.

  General Crane fumbled through a stack of papers as he sat at his desk at the Pentagon. He heard the sky rumble from a storm moving through the area as the trees shook. He leaned back in his chair and was watching lightning flash over the city when his phone buzzed.

  “We have a problem,” said Wesley Masters, on a secure line from Langley.

  “What’s that mean?” asked Crane.

  “A couple of mountain boys in West Virginia were shot in what appeared to be a home invasion. The local sheriff thought it was an inside feud, since
nobody would be stupid enough to invade the home of a locally known KKK member,” said Wesley. “Until . . . You sitting down?”

  “Until?” asked Crane, rolling his eyes at the drama.

  “Until they spotted a car that had been pushed or somehow maneuvered over the mountain located in their backyard. That’s when someone noticed the PMC and two birds emblem,” he said, pausing. “PMC—Pyeonghwa Motor Cars.”

  “North Korean cars aren’t illegal,” said Crane. “Although clearly odd. There’s such a thing as the black market, although I wouldn’t admit it outside of this conversation.”

  “Well, no matter how you slice it, a North Korean car in the United States is concerning,” retorted Wesley.

  Crane wiped his bald head as he looked out his window. The storm had started to pass.

  “Why isn’t Shareef telling me?”

  “He asked me to call. He was heading to the site and knew he’d be out of range of a cell tower.”

  “What about the men?”

  “Two men shot dead in their home. Someone doused them with gasoline but didn’t light the fire.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not sure. But, could have been they were afraid the fire might bring attention. Which it would have.”

  “We have, what, 50 murders a day in the US, Wesley?” said Crane, trying to make this problem disappear.

  “Yeah, but how many have radiation found in a North Korean car?” Wesley persisted as Crane sat down.

  “West Virginia mines uranium, which iodizes into radiation . . .”

  “But this was electromagnetic radiation, the nuclear kind.”

  “Crap, Wesley. When did this happen?” asked Crane, holding his forehead.

  “Last week. The two men didn’t show for a militant training exercise, so someone went to their house. They said they’d have taken care of the murderer themselves but didn’t have a clue who had done it, so they told the local authorities, who ultimately called in the FBI. Agent Ashton found the car in the back. Another report says someone thought they saw Rama Rhamine, but disregarded it since we said he was dead. Now we have radiation in a trunk.”

  Crane closed his eyes.

  “General?”

  “So Mason was right,” Crane said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mason . . .”

  “Oh, right, our Nostradamus. The good news is we know where this person was last seen. Shareef is following up,” Wesley said.

  “There is no good news in the resurrection of Rama Rhamine. We are the United States of America, for God’s sake!” said Crane emotionally. “And we’d better assume he is Hassan bin Laden!”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Wesley.

  “You’re not listening to Mason Thomas, Director Masters,” Crane said, pausing. “But it may be time that I started.”

  37

  Dominika Vladimirovich

  September 7

  Just after 2 p.m., General Crane’s mind raced. He began thinking about the recurring theme in his head: the hornet attacking the praying mantis, particularly since Crane’s discovery of that mysterious insect in the middle of the ocean had been responsible for his advising the president not to retaliate over the recent sinking of a tanker in the Persian Gulf, and the dawning awareness that Mason’s dreams appeared to be more than unconscious gobbledygook. Is this what people mean when they say many miss the obvious presence of the spiritual realm in their daily lives? he thought. We just don’t connect the dots, or if we do, we think we’ve lost our minds. After having been in another meeting for the past three hours, he sat down to review the latest intelligence report Wesley had sent over after they’d hung up hours ago. His office phone buzzed.

  “General, it’s Wesley.”

  “Did you find him?” he asked, hoping Wesley brought news that they had found the man responsible for the recent shooting and it was not Rama Rhamine or Hassan bin Laden.

  “No, sir.”

  “What is it now? I’ve got your briefing in front of me,” said Crane, now sitting up in his leather chair, holding in his hand the latest intelligence briefing sent over by Wesley.

  “I’ll save you some time. I looked up Capucine Foushé,” Wesley said, butchering an unfamiliar name.

  “Who is she again?”

  “Mason Thomas’s girlfriend.”

  “Cap-u-seen,” Crane corrected, knowing that name. “Sorry, I’m not trying to be cold, but who cares?” he asked, sitting forward in his chair.

  “If this were about Mason’s love life? Nobody. The fact that she may be a foreign agent or floater? Everyone should care.”

  “What?” Crane asked, jumping from his chair, his heart racing.

  “You heard me.”

  “How the hell did we miss that?” barked Crane, moving to the front of his desk and sitting down.

  “Is that a serious question?”

  Crane paused. “Excuse me?”

  “According to Sam Adams, you gave a civilian, Mason Thomas, top secret clearance before we did our due diligence.” He paused, likely for effect, thought Crane. “You knew about the androids, General, and yet you didn’t tell Sam,” Wesley said, obviously irritated, since he himself was the number two man, and both men should have known. “This is why following protocol matters.”

  “Right. Listen—” Crane started to say, when Wesley interrupted.

  “Forget it. As much as I’d like to reverse positions and chew you out, regardless of the fact that you’re my boss, I realize Crumpler is a different breed. None of us was ready for someone of his character calling the shots as president. But still, General? Mason Thomas should have gone through the normal process.”

  “Did you know while Sam was director of the CIA, he sent in the Afghan Ktah Khas unit, defying a direct order?” Crane asked, knowing he should just tell Wesley to shut the hell up and move on, but he was at the end of his rope. “I purposely didn’t tell the president that the Afghan forces just ‘showing up’ wasn’t a coincidence in Afghanistan. You were the assistant CIA director, Wesley; you worked for Sam. There was a discussion of whether the both of you should have been terminated because of Diablo 8-16. Let’s just be thankful that the two of us still have jobs,” retorted Crane. His blood was pumping through his veins at an elevated rate.

  A slight pause ensued. Crane wasn’t one to make push come to shove, but Sam Adams could have been arrested for sending in the Afghan unit to rescue his friend Ramon “Cool” Rae just a few weeks before, defying a direct order not to go in, since the president had had other plans. Not firing Wesley had been a gracious act. Crane had no idea if Sam had told Wesley his intentions, but he suspected Wesley was involved—particularly since Sam ultimately had told him about the androids, which was also a punishable offense.

  “I’m not sure all the subterfuge is healthy for our democracy, but I get the point, General,” said Wesley, almost admitting that he did know what Sam was doing in Afghanistan.

  “You were saying?” asked General Crane, his blood pressure lowering. “How is it possible that Mason Thomas’s girlfriend could be mixed up in the politics of the United States?”

  “Well, it’s speculation at this point, but she may be a Russian spy.”

  38

  Russian Spy?

  “Interpol and FEPF identify Capucine Foushé as a potential alias for a Dominika Vladimirovich,” Wesley said. “I’m sending you the summary file I compiled. Are you at your computer?”

  “This isn’t in your briefing?” asked Crane. He reached for a bottle of water.

  “No, sir. This is for your eyes only until you clear me to add it.”

  “Go ahead.” The following information popped onto Crane’s screen as he took a long swig of his water, his eyes remaining focused on the screen.

  ____________________________________

  Capucin
e Foushé & aliases, possible Dominika Vladimirovich, POI (Person of Interest)

  Dominika Vladimirovich: Interpol Red Alert—highly dangerous.

  Organizations: National Technology Initiative (NTI). Russian organization created by Russian president Salvo Crutin in 2014 because of fear Russia was falling farther behind the world’s technological surge. Crutin wanted to understand the challenges Russia will face in the next 10–15 years to ensure the national security of Russia and its ability to thrive.

  Education: MIT-UK. BIOCHEMISTRY/PHYSICS & Neurology. MIPT intern.

  Articles: Brain implantation for digital communication with outside world. NeuroNet. How distributed artificial elements of consciousness and mentality will change the 21st century through bionics, artificial intelligence, and control systems.

  Family: Mother, Irina Manannikova. Father, Vladimir Vladimirovich, deceased. Daughters Oksana and Anastasiya.

  Other: Operation Genplant: Temporary brain implant recipient connecting Dominika to the Internet intelligence information as medical trial.

  ____________________________________

  “Operation Genplant? Nobody has an implant. Where’d you get this?” Crane demanded, thinking this conversation was going from bad to worse. He had recently discussed Dhilan’s work with neural implants, but NASA was supposed to be leading the world.

  “I’m sure Dhilan knows more about Genplant, but that is not my immediate concern, although it’s up there on the list of shocking news. It’s Capucine that concerns me,” Wesley said as Crane interrupted.

  “I’ve noted your concern, but I’m confused. I don’t see the connection. What about Capucine’s history?”

  “She attended École Polytechnique in France, got her master’s from MIT-UK . . .”

  “So they went to the same school. Can’t you call the school and see if they’re two different people?” asked Crane

  “I did,” Wesley said. “They are; problem is, you can’t tell the difference when you look at their pictures, and nobody remembers two people, at least not anyone in admissions. I realize technology has gotten to the point where manipulation of photographs and video is almost untraceable, but this appears legit. She got another degree in neuroscience from the Sorbonne in Paris. She went on to work for GENCI. There are just far too many coinci—”