Okada had been able to minimize her commute by living close to work. The National Reconnaissance Office was located just south of Washington Dulles International Airport, in a group of unassuming office buildings.
But even though the complex didn’t look important it was. Because the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA), the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), the National Security Agency (NSA), and the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) were the so-called “big five” U.S. intelligence agencies. And Okada was proud to work at the NRO, if only as a junior analyst in the Imagery Intelligence Systems Acquisition Directorate. A name which had a strangely Russian feel to it.
Okada took the usual turn, got in line behind some other cars, and waited to show her ID. After parking the KIA in the usual spot Okada made her way across the parking lot to the building she worked in. It was a nice spring day, and there was no need to take her umbrella.
Once inside Okada had to pass through another checkpoint before making her way up to the third floor, where she waved her card at the reader mounted next to the office door. There was a click, followed by a green indicator light, and Okada went inside.
Okada was typically the first person to arrive. And that day was no exception, although some of her peers had been forced to pull an all-nighter. Her boss Duane Blakely was one of them. He was tall, rumpled, and badly in need of a shave. “Good morning, Lori,” Blakely said gravely, as he turned his back on the communal coffee urn. “No, that’s bullshit. There ain’t noth’in good about it. ”
Okada frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“You haven’t heard? North Korea attacked South Korea an hour ago.”
“Shit. Did they use nukes?”
“Not yet … But they’re pounding Seoul with long range artillery. Thousands of civilians have been killed. And the Russians overran Estonia.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Blakely took a sip of coffee, made a face, and poured what remained into the sink. “No, thanks. I know it isn’t sexy, but I’m counting on you to keep an eye on everything north of Shenyang.”
That was bullshit of course. The truth was that Blakely didn’t trust Okada to handle the important stuff—because she was the departmental newbie. That’s why she had responsibility for one of the few areas in the world where everything was calm. But Okada understood, and nodded her head. “I’m on it, and I’ll make some coffee.”
After making coffee Lori took a cup to her cubicle which, in keeping with her lowly status, was the worst work station on the floor. Her cube faced a wall rather than a window, and was two square feet smaller than the rest. It was located in a corner however, and Okada liked that. There were three monitors on her desk, plus a terminal, and a Snoopy mug filled with colored pens. Okada put her purse in a drawer and sat down.
Like other intelligence agencies the NRO had its own highly secured computer network consisting of fiber-optic and satellite communication channels which couldn’t be accessed via the public Internet. The network allowed NRO personnel and civilian and military intelligence analysts all over the world to access the agency’s systems and databases.
Internet access was monitored, controlled, and handled separately. As Okada entered her password, she knew that every keystroke she made would be logged, and her activities would be audited on a regular basis.
Okada spent the first fifteen minutes plowing through routine emails and submitting reports. Once her chores were complete she went to work. Except it wasn’t work. Not to Okada. The process of analyzing images was part science, part art, and endlessly engaging.
So it was with a sense of anticipation that Okada began to review the most current imagery for her corner of the world. Most of the photos were from satellites, but others had been acquired by high-flying spy planes, and a variety of drones.
The first area Okada wanted to examine was the 284,000 square mile Chukotka Autonomous Okrug (county). The area had a climate similar to that of western Alaska. So why, given how remote the Chukotka was, had the Russians sent a division of motorized troops there? Especially given the fighting in eastern Europe? That was the question Okada had voiced two days earlier at the directorate’s 5:00 PM scrum.
And the answer, according to a well-coiffed rep from the Mission Integration Directorate (MID), was widely available on the Internet. A snarky comment that generated titters and made Okada blush. “According to the press release that the Russian Stavka (high command) put out,” the rep intoned, “the troops are in Chukotka for a winter training exercise called ‘Red Ice.’ The folks at the pentagon figure that the Russians are preparing for what is sure to be a hellacious winter. Even if some of us have forgotten about what happened to Napoleon’s troops in 1812, and to Hitler’s armies in 1941, the Russians haven’t. They call the winter ‘General Frost,’ and plan to take full advantage of it.”
And that was that. Or it should have been. But Okada remained unconvinced. World War III was underway, and the Stavka chose to announce what 15,000 troopers were up to? Seriously? But junior analysts were to be seen, not heard. So Okada was forced to back off.
That wasn’t the same thing as giving up however. Okada put a sat image taken 24 hours earlier up on monitor one, and the most recent version on monitor two, and compared them. Then she repeated the process using thermal imagery. It was easier to read, but still inconclusive. Russian army vehicles were moving around. “So what?” That’s what Blakely would say.
Okada chose to look at the same area from a higher altitude while using a program that could not only compare before and after images, but flag the differences between them. And there were lots of differences. Icebergs had moved. So had ships. And thousands of vehicles. All of which was normal.
But there were other objects too … Identical constructs that were moored in the Russian ports of Anadyr, Petropavlovsk, and Magadan. They were rectangular in shape and highly reflective. Okada thought they were floating docks at first.
But, after enlarging the photos and running a reverse image search, Okada realized her mistake. She was looking at concrete pontoons! Dozens of them. After additional analysis Okada estimated that each pontoon was roughly 360 feet long, 75 feet wide, and nearly 30 feet tall. To be used for what? After back searching three days’ worth of data Okada realized that the constructs were multiplying during the hours of darkness. As if more of them were being launched every day.
Okada ran a comparison search, discovered that nearly identical pontoons had been used to construct the 520 floating bridge in Washington State, and began to work a variety of related search terms. It took less than a minute to find a Wikipedia article titled: “Bering Strait Crossing.” The first sentence read: “A Bering Strait Crossing is a hypothetical bridge or tunnel spanning the relatively narrow and shallow Bering Strait between the Chukotka Peninsula and the Seward Peninsula in the U.S. state of Alaska. ”
Okada felt a sudden surge of excitement as she read the words. A bridge! The Russians were going to build a freaking bridge across the strait! And, since the strait was only 53 miles across at its narrowest point, the feat could be accomplished with 777 pontoons. Except that Okada’s data included 850 pontoons. Why so many? Because the Russians were manufacturing spares, that’s why. They knew the Americans would try to stop them—and some of their pontoons would be destroyed.
The discovery was so amazing, and so important, that Okada felt compelled to find Blakely and tell him about it. He was in his office, and preparing to go home, when Okada entered. He frowned. “Hi, Lori … Can this wait?”
“I don’t think so,” Okada told him. “I came across something big. Very big.”
Blakely sighed. “Okay, give me the five second version.”
“The Russians are going to build a floating bridge between the Chukotka Peninsula and Alaska.”
Blakely blinked. His eyes were rimmed with red. “What makes you think so?”
Okada told him. And, to Blakely
’s credit, he let her finish before dropping the hammer. “Look, Lori … I appreciate your enthusiasm. But here’s the situation. The United States is fighting on three continents. We’re stretched to the limit. So we have to prioritize. And this qualifies as a one on a scale of one to ten. Continue to monitor it. And, if you see a smoking gun, let me know. I’m going home.” And with that, Blakely left.
Okada was more than disappointed, she was pissed. If 850 fucking pontoons didn’t constitute a fucking smoking gun, then what the fuck did?
But orders were orders, and Okada had hers. The search began. Okada spent the rest of the day and half the night searching, enhancing, and cross indexing images without success. Was that because the information didn’t exist? Or because she didn’t know what to look for?
The second possibility followed Okada home, and was foremost in her mind when she returned to work the next morning. After wading through the usual to-do’s Okada launched an Internet search for people who might be able to help her. There were lots of hits. But, after fifteen minutes of analysis, Okada narrowed her choices down to three engineers: Alan Reeves, Mitchell Conway, and Carol Simms.
All three had been involved in the 520 project in Washington State, and could theoretically answer her questions. But that was as far as Okada could take it without straying from her box. Something Blakely would almost certainly object to.
So Okada took an early break, and went out to the KIA, where her cellphone was hidden under the front seat. By checking Facebook and LinkedIn Okada developed leads that eventually produced phone numbers for two of the three engineers. And, by entering “67” before dialing each number, Okada could place anonymous calls. Simms failed to answer. But the call to Reeves went through. “Hello? This is Alan Reeves.”
“My name is Mandy Howell,” Okada lied. “I’m doing research on floating bridges, and I wondered if you’d be willing to answer a few questions.”
“About the 520 bridge? That’s old news … And there’s plenty of stuff on the Internet.”
“Not exactly,” Okada replied. “I’m writing an article about the feasibility of building a bridge across the Bering Strait.”
Reeves laughed. “Okay, I can imagine that on the cover of Popular Science, but the concept isn’t practical.”
“Why not?”
“Who would pay for it? There’s no economic demand for a shortcut between Chukotka and Alaska. Never mind the fact that we’re fighting Russia in Europe. Problems like that don’t bother pie-in-the-sky Conway though … He wrote a self-published book on the subject. You can buy it on amazon. It’s a buck ninety-nine if I remember correctly.”
“What you say makes sense,” Okada told him. “And I’ll be sure to include your perspective in the article. But I’d love to get a couple of quotes from Mr. Conway too … Have you got a number for him?” Okada held her breath. Did Reeves have the number? And would he share it if he did?
“Sure,” Reeves said. “Hang on … I’ll dig it up.” He returned moments later, and Okada could hardly believe her good luck. Conway’s area code was 202! That meant the engineer was living in Washington D.C., even though he was a resident of Seattle, according to LinkedIn. “Thank you,” Okada said. “I really appreciate it. Can I call you back if I have more questions?”
“Sure,” Reeves replied. “Say hello to Mitchell for me. The Bering Strait thing is whacky—but he’s a good engineer.”
Okada was twenty minutes into a fifteen-minute break, and had to hurry back to the office. There was regular work to do—and plenty of it. As a result Okada wasn’t free to call Conway until noon. The call went to voicemail. “Hello, this is Major Mitchell Conway, with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. I can’t take your call at the moment, but leave a message, and I’ll get back to you. Thanks.”
Okada broke the connection. Now she knew more. Or thought she did. Based on the content of Conway’s voicemail message, it sounded as if his National Guard unit had been called to active duty. She would try him again.
It was 3:30 by the time Okada could return to the KIA and place another call to Conway. It went through. “This is Major Conway.”
After lying to Reeves Okada was tempted to lie again, but knew that would be stupid, since it might be necessary to contact Conway again. She played it straight. “My name is Lori Okada, and I work for the NRO.”
“A sky spook,” Conway said. “Cool.”
Okada had never heard anyone refer to NRO personnel as sky spooks before. “I’m calling in regards to your work with floating bridges,” Okada told him. “Would you be willing to answer some questions?”
“I would if you’re who you claim to be,” Conway replied. “How ‘bout I call the NRO and ask for you?”
Okada wanted to avoid that if she could, since Blakely would object. “That would be fine,” she assured him. “Or, we could get together for a drink, and I’ll show you my ID.”
“Works for me,” Conway responded, before naming a bar near the Pentagon.
The last thing Okada wanted to do was battle rush hour traffic. But the opportunity was too good to pass up. She agreed to meet Conway, and returned to the office.
There were advantages to being the departmental newbie, one of which was to leave work on time, because Blakely invariably assigned the high priority stuff to senior analysts. So Okada was free to sign out and hit the road.
The drive was every bit as bad as Okada expected it to be, but she managed to make it on time. As Okada entered the bar she saw military paraphernalia on the walls and uniforms all around. “Ms. Okada?”
Okada turned to find that Conway had approached her from behind. He was tall, with graying hair, and a friendly manner. “How did you recognize me?” Okada inquired.
“You were the only Asian American female to enter the bar at precisely 1800 hours,” Conway replied. “Follow me, I have a table in back.” After working their way through the crowd, they arrived at a tiny table with two chairs leaning against it. “I was serious,” Conway said, once they were seated. “I need to see some ID. ”
Okada offered her NRO identity card and her driver’s license. Conway grinned as he gave them back. “Okay, sky spook, what’s shaking?”
Okada met his gaze. “According to Alan Reeves you are not only an authority on floating bridges—you are an ardent proponent of building a span across the Bering Strait.”
Conway stared at her. His eyes widened. “Holy shit! The Russians are going to build one!”
The speed with which Conway arrived at that conclusion surprised Okada, but shouldn‘t have. He knew who she worked for—and what she wanted to discuss. “Maybe,” Okada allowed cautiously. “Please remember that this conversation is classified.”
Okada didn’t have the power to classify the discussion—but Conway didn’t question the pronouncement. He nodded. “Of course. So, tell me … What are the bastards up to?”
Okada told him about the pontoons, the way they continued to multiply, and the similarities between them and the ones used to construct the 520 bridge. Conway listened intently. “Okay, I agree. Based on your description, it sounds like they’re going to throw a span across the strait during the ice melt. But you know that. What do you want from me?”
“I know it,” Okada agreed. “But my boss is skeptical. So I need more evidence. Maybe I have it, but don’t know that I have it, if that makes sense.”
“It does,” Conway assured her.
“Tell me what to look for,” Okada said. “What kind of things would the Russians do before the construction process can begin?”
“Everything you need to know is in chapter three of my book,” Conway replied. “It was number 1,365,296 on amazon earlier today. But here’s the summary: It’s safe to assume that the Reds have contour maps of the sea bottom that were originally created for their submarines to use. However … Because the area we’re talking about is notoriously hard and uneven, it’s possible that they used a survey ship to remap the section of the sea floor that will lie di
rectly beneath the bridge.
“Before starting construction the Russians would drop sea anchors at carefully chosen locations. The anchors will play a critical role in keeping the bridge where it’s supposed to be. There are winds to worry about, tides to consider, and huge chunks of drifting ice to contend with.
“And finally,” Conway added, “I would expect to see a military dimension to the construction effort. I didn’t cover that in my book for obvious reasons. But once the Russians make a start, they’ll have to defend what they build. So it’s logical to assume that you’ll be able to identify military preparations over and above the troop concentrations you mentioned earlier. Their efforts may be subtle—but they’ll be evident.”
“They’ll be evident.” Those words were still ringing in Okada’s ears as she returned to the office. She could tell that some sort of hush-hush operation was underway, because two of Blakely’s top people were huddled with the director as she passed his office.
The conversation with Conway had been an eye opener. Okada knew what to look for now—and couldn’t wait to go after it. Had the plans for the bridge been sitting on a Russian hard drive? Waiting for the right set of conditions to come along? Yes, Okada concluded. They had.
But the earliest start date would have been the day the war began. Because up until that point the Politburo had no reason to begin work. So Okada took that as the starting point for her search. She was looking for a vessel which would have been cruising back and forth between Chukotka and Alaska.
By accessing the NRO’s databases Okada was able to determine that the Russians had an Ivanov class “research” vessel operating off the east coast and, according to the data summary, the Yantar (Amber was equipped to carry out subsurface mapping missions—as well as gather Intel on American submarines. That made the Yantar the ideal ship for the sort of mission Conway envisioned.
But after reviewing all of the relevant data regarding the spy ship’s movements Okada came up empty. The Yantar had been in the area, and passed through the strait. But the ship had been cruising north to south rather than east to west. That was disappointing to say the least.
Red Ice Page 5