by David Bruns
“You’ve got it,” he said to his copilot, Lieutenant Max “Taxi” Weber. “Going for coffee.”
“I got it,” Taxi acknowledged. “We’re coming up on our turn in ten minutes. I expect the Chinese will have something to say about our flight plan.”
Tracker laughed and called over his shoulder, “Stand by to get talked to death in bad English.”
He made his way down into the heart of the aircraft, passing the banks of electronics used for their main mission: hunting submarines. Two of the crew had a panel racked out and were running a diagnostic.
“How’s the coffee?” Tracker said to the chief petty officer.
“Black and bitter, like my attitude, sir,” she replied with a wry grin.
Tracker chuckled as he poured his coffee. As he added powdered creamer, he felt the aircraft start a gentle turn. Within a few minutes, they’d get the typical verbal warning about how they were approaching Chinese territorial waters and to reverse course. He wondered idly if they had that message prerecorded or if they had someone read it each time.
He could remember flying over Fiery Cross Reef years ago as a newly minted ensign on a training mission. The place had been nothing but a bump in the ocean. But the Chinese had carted in rock and soil and sand and made an island, complete with a harbor, a short airstrip, and buildings. The Chinese had some brass ones to pull that off, but what really amazed him was how the rest of the world just let them do it. He had to hand it to them, the Chinese knew how to play the long game. They’d taken decades to attain full control over the Spratlys, and there was no way they were leaving.
Now pilots like him were stuck playing this silly game of “violating” a fictional twelve-mile boundary on a fictional island instead of hunting submarines like he was trained to do. It was a waste of time and resources in his opinion, but who else was going to challenge the Chinese besides the good old US Navy?
He licked a drip of coffee from the stir stick and dropped it in the trash.
Tracker was just sliding back into his seat when his copilot called out. “Crossing the twelve-mile boundary on Fiery Cross Reef, sir.”
He fitted his headphones over his ears. “Very well. Stand by to be jawboned.”
As if on cue, the radio sounded in his ears: “Unidentified aircraft, you are operating in the sovereign waters of the People’s Republic of China. Please reverse course and leave this area immediately.”
Tracker winked at Taxi. “I’ll take this call.” He cleared his throat and keyed his mic. “We are a US Navy aircraft operating in international airspace en route to Singapore. We intend to maintain course and speed.”
The Chinese broadcast continued: “Unidentified aircraft, you are operating in—”
“Incoming bogeys, Captain!” the crew chief broke in, her voice tight with tension.
Seconds later, two Chinese J-11 fighters streaked by the windscreen with a thunderous roar. The Poseidon wobbled in their wake, alarms flashing on the control panel.
“Off autopilot!” Tracker yelled, seizing the aircraft controls. “Repeat the warning, Max.”
Weber keyed his mic. “We are a US Navy aircraft operating in international airspace en route to—”
“They’re coming back for another pass,” the crew chief said over the open channel.
“Acknowledged, Chief. Maintaining course and speed. Max, keep broadcasting.”
Tracker gripped the steering yoke, his eyes searching the blue sky for the two Chinese fighters.
There! A dot on the horizon separated and grew larger at an alarming rate.
“Closing speed Mach two,” the chief called.
Tracker gritted his teeth as he acknowledged the chief. There was nothing to do but stay on his present course. He had a fleeting glimpse of the lean fighters flashing by the cockpit. He felt the sound of their passage in the muscles of his belly, and he forced himself not to duck in response to their supersonic passage.
“They’re carrying PL-12 air-to-air missiles, sir,” the crew chief said.
“Any sign we’re being targeted, Chief?”
“Negative, sir. I’m reading only nav radars.”
Tracker took a deep breath but kept a firm grip on the yoke to still his shaking hands. “How long till we’re past twelve miles, Max?”
“Two minutes.”
“They’re coming back again,” the chief called out.
Tracker steeled himself. “Acknowledged.”
“They’re slowing, sir … matching speed…”
A shape loomed in Tracker’s peripheral vision. He stared over at the Chinese fighter fifty yards off his wingtip. The craft’s angular design and swept wings looked lethal next to the lumbering Poseidon.
“Coming up on twelve miles.”
Just before the fighter peeled off, Tracker raised his right hand and flipped the Chinese pilot the bird.
CHAPTER 7
White House Situation Room, Washington, DC
Rick Baxter came to attention as the president entered with his entourage.
The seats around the table filled rapidly with a who’s who of political and military power, and the overflow spilled into chairs against the wall. In addition to the directors of the FBI, CIA, and national intelligence—Baxter’s boss—there were the secretaries of state and defense, the vice president, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the national security adviser.
Far too many people, in Baxter’s opinion, but his boss did enjoy making a splash with her announcements.
After the normal pleasantries, the DNI took charge of the meeting. Judith Hellman was a tall, angular woman with shoulder-length red hair and a noncommittal smile derived from years of political maneuvering. “Good morning, Mr. President. The briefing today is seeking your approval for an operation to take out the terrorist Rafiq Roshed.”
“Public enemy number one is still out there after all, huh?” the president said. “I was hoping maybe the Iranians had taken care of him by now.”
“Unfortunately, sir,” Baxter said, taking his cue from the DNI’s lead-in, “it looks like it’s up to us. We have new intel about Roshed’s whereabouts, as you can see in this debriefing video.” He punched his keyboard to start the video clip. The screen showed a thin man with Asian features sitting across from Rick Baxter.
“Meet Kim Daiwoo, third cousin once removed to the Supreme Leader himself. Mr. Kim was a North Korean diplomat assigned to the UK. Three weeks ago, he defected, along with his wife and son. From the perspective of gathering intel on the DPRK’s nuclear program, he was a bust. However, he had a very interesting tale to tell on another topic.”
The Korean defector spoke in excellent English. “There is a man, a foreigner, in the Covert Actions Division. He has dark skin and dark hair and speaks English with a Spanish accent. He knows Arabic, too. We needed him to translate for us once.”
“When did he come to North Korea?” Baxter asked.
The defector considered the question. “Maybe five years ago. Difficult to say. He lives on a special compound outside of Pyongyang—and he goes on secret assignments for the Supreme Leader. Overseas assignments. I was told to bring him into the UK on a diplomatic mission two years ago.” He hesitated.
“Go on,” Baxter urged.
“There is a rumor in my homeland—my former homeland—about this man.”
Baxter said nothing. The diplomat shifted in his seat.
“It’s only a rumor, you understand. I am not vouching for this as fact.”
“I’m waiting.”
“The attack on the American power grid last year. It was done by this man.”
Baxter exchanged a glance with the DNI as a collective gasp sounded in the room. Mission accomplished.
He stopped the video. “It is our assessment that Roshed is hiding out in North Korea and the defector’s rumor is at least plausible. Furthermore, we have a plan to take him out.”
The vice president frowned. “Please tell me you’re not going to recommend we run a cove
rt operation inside of the DPRK.”
“No, sir,” Baxter replied, ignoring the sharp look from DNI Hellman that said, Get on with it! “We’ve been able to correlate a number of unrelated incidents that directly benefited the Kim regime with times when this individual was outside of the DPRK.”
“So when he’s out of his hiding place doing the Supreme Leader’s dirty work,” the president said, “you’re going to nail him.”
“Exactly, sir.”
The JCS chairman, Admiral Henley Reeder, leaned into the table. “If you can ID him outside of North Korea, we have lots of options to take him down. JSOC, a drone strike, even a small CIA direct action team.”
The DNI coughed gently. “Those are all very viable options, Admiral, but we recommend using outside assets.”
“Explain that,” said the national security adviser in a sharp tone.
The DNI nodded at Baxter to continue. “We want him eliminated—with firm proof, of course. Verify the kill and destroy the remains, bin Laden–style. But when we went after bin Laden we found his hideout and planned a direct action mission over many months, including numerous rehearsals by SEAL Team Six.” He flipped to a map of North Korea.
“With Roshed it’s a different game. We need to nail him up on the run. His hideout has thousands of miles of coastline and borders Russia and China, so our ability to nab him leaving or reentering North Korea is almost zilch.” Baxter let that last statement sink in.
“And that leaves us where?” the chairman said.
“We need to pre-position strike teams where we think he will be.” He flipped to a world map. “We’re proposing three teams. One in Argentina, near his children; one in Africa, his last known location; and one in Lebanon, to cover the eastern Med. We think these three locations hold the highest probability of his next appearance.”
“Tell me about his family situation again, Rick,” the president said.
Baxter punched a key on his laptop, and side-by-side images of two dark-haired children popped onto the screen. “The mother was killed by the Iranians when they came hunting Roshed. The two children survived. They still live on the family ranch in Argentina with an aunt.”
“And the story about the flowers?” the president persisted. “That’s true?”
“It is, sir. White roses on his wife’s grave on the anniversary of her death, every year like clockwork. Other than that, there’s no indication Roshed’s in contact with his children.”
The CIA director, Roger Trask, cleared his throat. “If I could bring the discussion back to the operation, Mr. President. Three US teams undercover in foreign countries for an unknown period. It’s a logistical nightmare—what if they get discovered? The political fallout would be a disaster.” Trask was a man predisposed to more caution than courage. Baxter could see that Trask’s comments had not landed well with the president.
“That’s why we’re not proposing to use US teams,” the DNI replied, her cryptic smile in place.
“You’re going to contract it out,” the president said.
“Exactly, sir,” Baxter jumped in. “We hire three hit teams through the CIA’s Special Activities Division—all through shell companies, completely deniable. We assign them a geography and they get paid only if they bring us DNA-based proof of Roshed’s demise.”
“And what happens when one of these teams gets discovered?” said the vice president.
“It’s on them,” Baxter said. “These guys know what they’re getting into when they sign on with a private security firm. If they get caught, it’s their problem to sort out.”
“But we’ll use our own assets if we have the opportunity, right?” The chairman’s face was red, and Baxter could see his jawline working. The admiral knew he’d been outflanked by the DNI and was not happy about it. His boss could handle that mess.
“Absolutely, sir,” Baxter said. “This is just a low-risk way to have assets in place if we need to act on immediate intel.”
“Can’t we just run a drone over North Korea and drop a Hellfire on this guy?” asked the vice president.
The room went quiet. The national security adviser spoke finally. “Sir, we’d be risking the DPRK lobbing a nuke into South Korea—or maybe even Japan. That’s not a risk we can take, even for an animal like Roshed.”
The president looked at the CIA director. “What about human assets inside the DPRK? Can we take him out that way?”
Roger Trask shook his head. “No, sir. Our assets on the ground in North Korea are sparse to say the least. Getting close to Roshed with the assets we have would take months, maybe years, and even then, there’s no guarantee of success. The analysis says we could burn a lot of assets and a lot of time with little to show for it. In the meantime, we have no idea what Roshed is cooking up next. This plan is a calculated risk, but it’s the right one. I guess I support it.”
The president took his pen out of his breast pocket. He fixed Baxter with a fierce glare. “Then let’s make sure we get him this time, Mr. Baxter.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
CHAPTER 8
White House, Washington, DC
As he hustled up to the staff entrance at the White House, Don Riley put his hand in his bag for his ID, but the pocket where he normally kept the badge was empty. Don cursed to himself, then placed the bag on the dewy pavement to perform a more methodical search.
He checked his watch and let out a hiss of frustration. If he’d left his credentials at home, there was no way he could retrieve them in time to make the meeting. And one did not show up to a meeting with the director of national intelligence wearing a temporary badge. His fingers touched a thin plastic card between his laptop and his iPad.
“Don?”
Brendan McHugh stood over him, a half smile on his face. “Lose something?”
Don held up his ID triumphantly. “Not anymore.” He scrambled to his feet and hugged his friend. “What are you doing here?”
“Briefing. You?”
“Same.” Their eyes met, and Don knew his friend was thinking the same thing he was. Ever since Liz had picked up the trail of Rafiq Roshed, Don had been dreaming about getting some payback on that bastard. Maybe this was it. “Liz going to be here?”
Brendan shook his head and passed through the metal detector. “Not that I know of.”
Maybe he was wrong after all. It was hard for Don to believe that Liz would be excluded from a Roshed manhunt. She had as much history as either of them. He passed through the metal detector and picked up his bag off the belt. “How’re the kids? Got a recent picture?”
Brendan thumbed his phone on and swiped through the camera roll. He held the phone out to Don. Liz’s face had thinned with motherhood, but she had the same stocky, muscular physique he’d always known. Her dark hair was longer now and held by a silver clasp at her nape. She was swinging a raven-haired girl up in the air.
Don handed the phone back. “Your wife is more beautiful than ever. You, on the other hand…” He laughed as he spoke, but it was true. His friend’s dark hair was shot with gray and permanent lines had settled into his face. Shadows filled the hollows under his eyes.
Brendan gave Don a tired smile. “Yeah, I know, you don’t have to say it: I look good, too.”
He was interrupted by an approaching staffer, who said, “The director is ready for you. If you’ll follow me, please.”
* * *
Director of National Intelligence Judith Hellman was seated alone at the table in the secure conference room. She rose and shook their hands, adding a perfunctory nod at two folders on the table. “Before we begin this morning, we’ll need each of you to sign a special NDA.”
Don flipped open the cover to find a multipage nondisclosure agreement with the label Operation Parable Cleaver. He chuckled to himself at the computer-generated name. The program was designed to ensure that no trace of the actual mission was inadvertently signaled in the name of the operation, but it often resulted in some ludicrous word combinations. He
scanned the document, noting the extreme penalties for disclosure, and signed his name at the bottom.
The door opened and a tall black man in civilian clothes walked in. He nodded at the DNI. “Sorry I’m late, ma’am. Accident on the Beltway.”
The DNI gave him a frosty nod and turned to Don and Brendan. “I believe you both know Rick? He’s running point on Parable Cleaver. Now that you’ve signed, I’ll get right to business. We’re confident that Rafiq Roshed is in North Korea. We want him captured or killed. Either way is fine with the administration.”
Baxter took over and played a video clip of his interview with a North Korean defector. Brendan and Don exchanged looks when the man claimed Roshed was responsible for the attack on the US power grid. That accounted for the new focus.
“We did some checking on old video footage suggested by the defector,” Baxter said. “We came up with this.” He pushed an 8 × 10 black-and-white picture across the table.
It was a shot of a man from the waist up, taken from a distance and through a wrought-iron fence. He was the right height and build for Roshed, but the jawline and profile seemed off.
“Cosmetic surgery?” Don asked.
Baxter nodded. “That’s likely. It’s also interesting to note that at the same time as this photograph was taken, one of the principal negotiators for the multiparty talks on the North Korean nuclear deal died in a car accident while on holiday. He was having an affair and had a known drinking problem, so the death was ruled accidental.” His lips tightened. “We’re working with the assumption that Roshed was brought in to silence a very vocal critic of the Supreme Leader.”
The DNI broke in as if impatient for Baxter to get to the point. “Based on the defector’s testimony, we believe Roshed comes and goes from North Korea at the bidding of Kim Jong-un—for special assignments. Parable Cleaver authorizes us to nail him if he pokes his nose outside of the DPRK. You both have a unique understanding of Roshed, and Rick feels it is in our best interest to read you into this special access program. It’s very possible that our first hint of Roshed will come from a lateral source, something that you might come across during the course of your normal duties.”