Red Deception

by Gary Grossman

  “The captain says we’re okay.”

  Thirty minutes more proved the captain was wrong. Reilly heard another alarm and then the plane shuddered rapidly. An order, not a request, came from the cockpit.

  “Mr. Reilly, Roxanne, we’re going to have to put down. The nearest airport is Maracaibo; La Chinita International. It’s a full-service airport and a Venezuelan airbase. It could get bumpy along the way, that bird did more damage than I initially thought.”

  Reilly wondered what kind of damage, but it didn’t matter. This was Captain Michael Tuxhorn’s plane. His responsibility. His call. For the next eighteen shaky, tense minutes, Dan Reilly put his trust in the former Navy aviator.

  Ten minutes into the increasingly bumpy flight, the Gulfstream banked left over the Gulf of Venezuela and crossed low over what appeared to be a very active naval port with battleships and transports. He spotted Chinese and Greek flags on the ships. Nothing unusual, but interesting to someone with a keen eye. China had stepped up its trade with the regime. Especially food and durable goods. But off-loaded at a navy port? Reilly wondered.

  The thought vanished when the jet vibrated violently and dropped at least one hundred feet. Roxanne automatically shouted, “Brace, brace, brace!”

  Reilly bent his body forward and put his head down. The plane continued to rattle. His suitcase, wedged in across the aisle, slid out. Reilly stopped it with his left foot and dragged it under his feet.

  The engines seemed to struggle. The plane continued to shake. He peered out the window. He calculated they were less than five hundred feet over the port, now the city. The airport had to be less than a mile ahead.

  A half-minute later they landed hard and fast, which told Reilly the situation was even more dire than imagined. The jet braked, made a speedy right turn off the runway, and rolled to a stop.

  “Roxanne, prepare the cabin to exit,” the pilot commanded over the PA.

  Tuxhorn said exit. Reilly heard evacuate, which he was more than willing to do.

  Once the plane stopped and the door opened, Reilly thanked Roxanne and safely stepped away. He looked at the Gulfstream 150. From the left it seemed fine. He walked around the front and saw exactly why the pilot had to put down so quickly. The lower part of the nose, not visible from the cockpit, was torn apart. Much of the avionics likely destroyed. Feathers were embedded in the smashed metal and more of the bird was probably inside.

  Any crash you can walk away from… he thought.

  The sun beat down on Reilly as he stood on the hot tarmac. He heard the plane’s engines shut down.

  Reilly got his bearings; they were on the edge of the commercial side of the airport, adjacent to Rafael Urdaneta Air Base. One hundred yards away, he saw the kinds of activity he’d expect at a military airbase. He took inventory: helicopters, four MI-17s, a pair of two-seat MiG 29s, and nine one-seat MiG 29s. Further away, he counted three other fighter jets, likely Sukhoi SU-30MK2s.

  All in all, Russia had a strong presence at Rafael Urdaneta.

  Soon a fire truck and a tow arrived. The tow hooked the Gulfstream while the airport’s fire team assessed the damage, took photographs of the outside, and climbed the gangway.

  Reilly stood with his bag a safe fifty feet from the plane. A van approached. It slowed to a stop and a mechanic wearing an orange vest waved him in. Reilly said hello. When that didn’t get a reaction, he tried Buenos Dias. Except it wasn’t a really good day. The driver simply nodded. Just as well, Reilly thought. His stomach was uneasy, and his ears were clogged due to the rapid descent.

  Because of the ground traffic, the van took a circuitous route to the main terminal. This put them on peripheral access roads around the main runways. The driver said something in Spanish and pointed to a route ahead; a military aircraft needed to pass, so the van veered left, closer to a pair of Rafael Urdaneta hangars full of activity.

  Reilly saw trucks rolling in and out, supervisors barking orders. He rolled his window down. A blast of hot air caught him. So did the conversation; it wasn’t Spanish. Asian. Mandarin? he wondered.

  As they approached, Reilly determined the people in charge were definitely Asian. So were the non-uniformed workers under them. He strained to place the language. He held his nose, closed his mouth, and blew hard. His ears unclogged. Conversations came with the warm wind. Korean. Definitely Korean. He considered taking pictures from his cell phone but thought better of it. A wise decision because moments later, a Venezuelan MP noticed the unauthorized vehicle. The soldier shouted a command and pointed, then pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt.

  “Uh oh,” the driver said.

  The reaction needed no translation. He stepped on the gas and drove as fast as he could along the access road. It wasn’t fast enough. A military style Humvee intercepted them within 100 meters. The driver stopped. Soldiers with arms at the ready jumped out and surrounded the van.

  Reilly heard shouts of “Intrusos! Conseguirlos!” He knew enough Spanish to recognize ‘Intruders! Get them!’ The drawn guns were the exclamation points. The driver pointed to the crippled jet across the airport. He tried to explain, but he was a mechanic sent to pick up a passenger, not a negotiator.

  Reilly slowly got out of the vehicle. He raised his hands and figured it would take some doing, but they’d let him go once the MPs or the airbase command talked to La Chinita air traffic control.

  At least that’s what he hoped.

  It took forty minutes before an English-speaking officer entered the cramped trailer office where Reilly was being held. For all intents and purposes, it was now an interrogation room—sweltering with a nonfunctioning air conditioner.

  Reilly removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was certain his driver would be questioned in the same manner. His account would support Reilly’s. So, for now, he considered this just theater. But a mis-step here, like in customs, could cost him.

  The Venezuelan lieutenant held Reilly’s passport and wallet. He was overweight, on first blush ten years older than Reilly, and undoubtedly sent in unprepared by a commander. Reilly expected he would try to prove himself.

  “You have made a terrible mistake, Señor Reilly. This is a secure facility. You can be shot on my order alone.”

  Reilly said nothing.

  “Your confession will make it much easier.”

  “Lieutenant…” Reilly read his name on a tag above his left pocket. “…Monagas. I’m an American hotel executive on my way from Caracas to Colombia. My plane hit a bird. We had to put down quickly. You can easily confirm that with the tower or my pilot.”

  “They are not here. You are. You trespassed.”

  “My driver made a wrong turn.”

  “Purposely.”

  “By mistake.” Reilly looked sincere. He lowered his shoulders to show contrition rather than defiance. “My identification in my wallet will confirm my work.”

  “I’ve examined it. No doubt it is your cover. You’re an American spy.” Reilly remained calm.

  “A phone call to my office in Chicago or my hotel in Caracas can quickly clear this up. I encourage you to—”

  “They will lie as you are. You’re spying.”

  Reilly decided to push some.

  “What is there to spy on?”

  This threw the Venezuelan. He couldn’t answer without revealing what was happening at the facility. So, he fumbled through Reilly’s wallet.

  “Please, sir. Examine the jet. You’ll see the damage. Speak to the pilot and the tower. All I want to do is rebook and leave. This is all a mistake, and not my doing.”

  This went on for another ten minutes. Same questions, same answers, with the inexperienced officer trying to trip Reilly up. Frustrated, he finally left.

  Reilly stood and listened to a loud conversation through the wall. Different than his: emotional, full of shouting. His driver was being questioned. They’d have the same story, but Reilly wished he’d remained calm.

  After another half-hour, Monagas returned w
ith a black hood that he put over Reilly’s head.

  “Wait. What? No!”

  “Shut up. Do what I say.”

  Hooded, Reilly was led out of the trailer. The lieutenant barked some orders and answered one himself. He pushed Reilly into a jeep, sat him down and drove off without a word. At what Reilly calculated was a mile with some sharp twists and turns and the sounds of aircraft taking off and landing, Monagas stopped and pulled off the hood.

  “Out now!”

  Reilly looked around. They were at the commercial side of La Chinita International.

  “My passport, my wallet.”

  The lieutenant pulled them out of his pocket and tossed them on the ground.

  “Take them, spy, and leave!”

  Reilly nodded but decided not to respond. What he wanted most was a shower, a drink, and no more airport run-ins.

  39

  PITTSBURGH, PA

  THE SAME TIME

  Six 18-foot U-Haul trucks rolled onto Pittsburgh’s Three Sisters Bridges spanning the Allegheny River to and from downtown. The Roberto Clemente, the Andy Warhol, and the Rachel Carson. They were just three of the city’s 446 bridges, more than any other metropolitan area in the world, including Venice, Italy.

  These three bridges were identical. So were the trucks’ approaches: three from downtown, three from the opposite side, each pair converging within minutes in the middle.

  In a choreographed dance, the drivers all proceeded onto the spans and positioned their trucks perpendicularly across the clogged lanes. Then they each stopped, turned off their engines, got out, and threw their keys into the river. Like the vehicles they drove and the bridges they blocked, the men looked identical; they all wore Steelers’ caps, dark sunglasses, beige jackets, black turtlenecks, blue jeans, and black sneakers. Once out of their vehicles, they each walked in the direction they came from.

  Honking started almost immediately. Another annoying morning rush hour tie-up. Typical.

  A passenger in the taxi behind the inbound truck on the Roberto Clemente Bridge opened his door and yelled at the driver as he walked by.

  “Hey, what the fuck!”

  The driver ignored him.

  “Hey, you! Stop!”

  He didn’t. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Then a realization. Now out of the taxi the passenger screamed, “Run! Clear the bridge!”

  Twenty seconds. Others began opening their doors as reality set in. Not typical.

  Twenty-five seconds. Panic was spreading in both directions.

  Thirty seconds: mass confusion. People struggling with their safety belts. Car doors opening quickly and hitting people as they fled.

  The scene was the same on the Warhol and on the Carson. A Pittsburgh police officer on his way to morning duty watched a man purposely march toward him. The cop opened his door and stood.

  “You, stop!”

  The truck driver ignored the order. He checked his digital watch: thirty seconds. Fifteen seconds more.

  The officer, sensing trouble, ran after the man.

  “I said stop!”

  Instead of heeding the order, the truck driver began to run. He reached under his jacket, turned without slowing down, and fired an unbalanced shot from twenty feet. It missed. The officer’s return fire didn’t; the truck driver, shot in the chest, went down.

  Forty seconds.

  The policeman kicked the man’s gun away from his body. He looked back toward the truck, then ahead to the end of the bridge. He calculated quickly. The span was roughly four hundred feet in either direction. He’d been a sprinter in high school—at top speed with obstructions, he might make it in thirty seconds. But, he thought, that was years ago. And now—

  The first truck exploded with a deafening howl. The cop went down, barely avoiding shrapnel. He didn’t even hear the second explosion, but its searing heat scorched him. He picked himself up; he was still alive. He saw that others, in burning cars, weren’t.

  Pittsburgh shut down. Bridges, traffic and railroad tunnels, pedestrian tunnels, bicycle tunnels, subway tunnels all closed. Pittsburgh was dependent on its tight-flowing infrastructure; close even one traffic tunnel and the city is paralyzed. Close them all and tens of thousands of vehicles and hundreds of thousands of citizens are isolated.

  In less than an hour, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania became a war zone gripped by panic.

  40

  Reilly’s flight landed early in the morning at Dulles. As soon as he came into the lobby he noted people crowded under TV monitors. They were clutching their loved ones and shaking their heads. Crying. The lower third banner below the CNN anchor read “Pittsburgh Under Siege: Bridges Attacked.”

  He joined the crowd and felt utterly responsible. Multiple calls to make. He told Bob Heath to meet him at Langley; then he phoned Marnie Babbitt in London.

  She opened with, “Finally. I haven’t heard from you in days. No texts. Nothing. I’ve been worried sick. Where the hell are you? I hope it’s not Pittsburgh.”

  “No, and I’m sorry,” Reilly quietly offered while walking through the airport. “Still traveling. I’ve been keeping a low profile.”

  “I get that. But it’s me.”

  “Okay.”

  “So where are you?”

  “Just landed. In DC now.”

  “You say that like’s it just a stopover.”

  “Well, yes. A few stops in Venezuela. Then Bogotá.” He avoided any mention of rogue players.

  “What are you not telling me?” she asked.

  “Only what I can’t.”

  “You’ve got to do better than that. I don’t know what’s going on, but you owe it to me.”

  Reilly apologized again. Marnie asked when he’d be back.

  “Can’t really say.”

  “Can’t or…”

  “Can’t, Marnie.”

  “Well for God’s sake don’t do anything stupid,” she said. “But Stockholm is still on, right?”

  “Yes, eventually.”

  Reilly was definitely dodging her questions. Dammit, he thought. He hated feeling this way. They hung up with some sweet talk that missed the mark.

  41

  In another part of the day Reilly failed to share with Marnie, he took a cab straight to the CIA. Bob Heath greeted him downstairs, then took him to his sparsely furnished office. They skipped the small talk.

  “I’ve got something, but first fill me in on Pittsburgh.”

  “It’s bad. Really bad.” Heath summarized the initial FBI assessments, which were culled from eyewitnesses and local police.

  “Right out of the report. I should have seen it. I’m sorry.”

  “We should have, too. Same with the Bureau.” Heath admitted. “They’re cleaning up. But the three bridges are structurally at risk. The death toll is rising, Pittsburgh is in total lockdown. Police are overwhelmed. The National Guard is posted throughout the city. There is one bit of positive news, though: a police officer took down one of the terrorists.”

  “Alive?”

  “No.”

  “Then where’s the good news?”

  “Forensics. The FBI is working on everything from dental work to tattoos and any surgical scars that might support a national signature.”

  “It would be a lot more positive if he were alive.”

  “Well, that’s not an option. So what’s next? You’re the expert.”

  Reilly didn’t hesitate. “Hoover.”

  “The Bureau doesn’t think so. They made a thorough search of the dam, the pumping stations, right down to the filtering stations and pipelines along the delivery route. According to them, there’s no imminent danger.”

  “Was there any sign of danger in Pittsburgh before the bridge bombings?” Reilly asked.

  “No.”

  “Then they’re wrong. It was a potential target in World War II, it’s definitely a more important target now.”

  Heath vaguely recalled learning some of the history. Reilly explained in more detail.

  “
A month after World War II started in Europe, U.S. intelligence got a tip through our embassy in Mexico that two German agents intended to blow up the intake towers and destroy the high-voltage lines. They planned on posing as fishermen, boating up to the Lake Mead towers, and planting bombs. One of the operatives made multiple trips to scout the location and take photographs. The plot was foiled. The government buried the details to prevent any scare. But as a result, the dam and lake were closed to everyone but the most essential personal. When people noticed that no one was allowed to fish or boat on the lake, rumors spread. The Bureau of Reclamation later released a press statement that the dam was safe, and the plot was a merely a rumor.”

  “But it wasn’t,” Heath noted.

  “Not if you consider that defensive measures were proposed including stringing a huge net over Lake Mead to catch air dropped bombs and torpedoes. They also drew up plans to camouflage Hoover and even build a three-quarter scale model downstream from the actual dam as a decoy. But they didn’t.”

  “So they did nothing?” Heath wondered.

  “No. The Army installed floodlights near the dam to blind pilots, and laid out a wire net which prevented boats from coming within 300 feet of the dam. After Pearl Harbor, a gun turret pillbox was constructed above the dam. It’s still there. So, Hoover and its greater network was a serious target then and is even more so now.”

  “Would they target the water supply or the electrical grid?”

  “In terms of target effectiveness the real impact is water. The they, whoever they are, have been going for news that creates scary pictures. Shutting grids down means TV’s won’t work. You can’t watch cable news if there’s no electricity. So to my mind, this is about video impact. Turn off the faucets off in Las Vegas in mid-summer and it’s a threat that says, ‘Pay attention to us. We can get you anywhere, America. Anyway we want.’ And if they’ve truly paid attention to my report, and they have so far, that’s their real message.”

  Reilly paused to allow this to sink in.

  “Now I have something for you, something to take all the way to the top: I just came from Venezuela. You’re going to need to get eyes on what I saw.”