by Barry Becker
His palm vein pattern recognition system had a one in a million
chance of false acceptance. Both systems were virtually impenetrable. This dual-biometrics system now activated the door electronics control switch and opened the thick door. The whole process took approximately twelve seconds. He entered the sensitive area where a vice-president of engineering, a senior software engineer, two soft- ware programmers, a hardware engineering manager, two hardware engineers, and two electrical engineers were testing four EyeD4 Comm laptop computer systems for the US government. The US government had approved ten employees at the company for a top- security clearance, including Ericksen.
These seven men and three women were the only employees in the company authorized to access the SCIF area. Should any other employee try to gain access without an approved top-secret security clearance and get caught, the company would lose its certification and clearances as well as be subject to federal prosecution.
The government integrated the company’s encryption software’s best features with their software because the company’s algorithms were virtually impossible to defeat. They used the Advanced Encryp- tion Standard (AES) using 256-bit keys, using the same key for encrypting and decrypting the data. Two of their engineers had previously worked for the NSA.
Ericksen approached the vice-president of engineering, a tall, thin, balding man with a full beard and handed him a file marked Top Secret. The top of the letterhead displayed The Central Intelli- gence Agency, and in capital letters printed The Golden Cypher Project.
The vice-president of engineering looked up at him. “We’ll get back to Langley tomorrow morning.”
Ericksen nodded, smiled, and left the building. He jumped into his Porsche and drove to Lake Oswego. His secure smartphone rang. His Bluetooth activated the incoming call, and he leaned toward his Porsche Command Console: “Ericksen speaking.”
“Hi Mark, Fico Delgado. Don’t hang up on me. I got your number from Templeton.” Shit. Do I have to talk to him? Ericksen didn’t feel like opening up about his PTSD, his ongoing treatment, or his with-
drawal from normal social activities over the past several years to an old comrade-in-arms.
“Please hold, Fico.” He hadn’t spoken with Delgado or anyone else from Special Operations Forces except Templeton in over six years. The former Delta Force sergeant had integrity and profes- sionalism.
He pulled off the road and leaned closer to the Command Module, “Where are you?”
“I work in McLean, Virginia, for the National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC).
Templeton told me you’re planning a trip to DC on Sunday.” “Affirmative.”
“Would you like to join me for dinner Monday night?”
“Fico, unfortunately, I’m tied up both Monday and Tuesday evening with procurement and technical staff meetings from the three-letter guys in both Langley and Ft. Meade.”
“How long are you staying in town?”
“I take off Thursday morning back to Oregon.” “How about Wednesday evening, April 8?” Shit, he was a witness that day. Then silence. “Hello, Mark, are you still there?”
He got back to the conversation. “Sure. That will work.” “Where are you staying in DC?”
“The Hilton McLean Tysons Corner. How about 6:30?” “See you there, bro.”
He thought meeting his former JSOC team member might bring him closure. He leaned back on a comfortable leather chair in his psychologist’s office. The suite overlooked the Willamette River in Lake Oswego. He felt relaxed as he faced Dr. Ari Holtzman, a heavy- set man in his fifties, with a full dark brown mustache and bulbous round nose, who wore tortoise-shelled eyeglass frames. On the walls hung three surrealist, colorful paintings, photographs of Einstein and Carl Jung, and several impressive diplomas.
Ericksen had finally reached the decision to seek help for his PTSD. Having researched psychologists in the Portland area who worked with veterans who suffered from PTSD, he found Holtzman,
who had some success in this field, and became his patient in September 2006. Over the past two years of Prolonged Exposure Therapy as well as various forms of meditation, Holtzman’s approach enabled him to control his anger, guilt, fear, and anxieties. He still continued to keep his treatment a secret. The events of April 18, 2002, near Khost, Afghanistan, were always present, but not as painful as before.
He now wanted answers as to why his commander, Colonel Dawkins, had lied about Sadozai. The psychologist had heard his story countless times during treatment and encouraged him to accept that the real murderer was Colonel Dawkins.
“Mark, you served your country admirably, and you should be proud.”
He stood up. “Doc, I’m grateful to you for providing me the tools and the confidence to manage my PTSD.”
Dr. Holtzman shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “In the fog of war soldiers do things out of fear, confusion, and survival. You have the connections in Washington to conduct an under-the-radar inves- tigation and find out the truth.”
He nodded as he took out the picture of Sadozai’s wife and daughters from his wallet. “Jannan told me last year his brother’s wife and oldest daughter were murdered by the Taliban. Whenever I glance at the photo, I make a promise to myself: I must find a way to get his brother, his family, and Bashir’s daughter Laila, out of Afghanistan,” he sighed, then looked at the doctor. “That would give me some measure of redemption.”
16
Monday, April 6, 2009
ullivan’s chief of staff entered his office and handed him both an FBI and a CIA condensed report with the heading: Mark Niels Ericksen.
Mark Niels Ericksen, born July 13, 1970, in Copenhagen, Denmark – Naturalized American Citizen. Raised on Mercer Island, Washington.
B.S. degree with major: Computer Science, Oregon State University, 1992.
NCAA All-American wrestler at OSU. Commissioned Ensign in the US Navy, 1992. October 1993, Completed BUD/S class 184
1993-1998, SEAL Team-8 operator. Clearance: Top Secret.
September 1997-June 1998, Naval Post Graduate School – Arabic Language Proficiency.
August 1998-March 1999, Completed SEAL T-6 training. May 1999, Promoted to Lieutenant.
Married in May 2000. Classified missions in Yemen, Somalia, and Egypt 2000-2001.
Wife killed in car accident in June 2001.
December 2001, platoon leader of ISAF, coalition joint special opera- tions force in Kandahar Province (leading a team of SEAL T-6, Australian SAS, and Norwegian SOF). Dec-Feb 28.
March 1–May 7, 2002: Operation Ending Freedom. Part of JSOC Bagram Air Base, Bravo Team – Tier-One Missions. Received Silver Star in 2002 for bravery in Kandahar Province.
Purple Heart, North Africa-classified mission. Resigned commission May 10, 2002.
Employment Records:
September 2002–August 2004, Cambridge Defense Systems, US mili- tary contractor. Project Manager. Clearance: Top Secret. Bethesda, Maryland. (Drones)
September 2004–August 2006, Avanti BioSystems, US military contractor. Vice-President, military affairs, Vienna, Virginia. Biomet- rics ID Integration Task Force in Iraq and Afghanistan. Clearance: Top Secret.
Executive MBA, University of Virginia, 2006.
September 2006–Present, EyeD4 Systems, executive vice-president, marketing and sales, a biometrics technology firm, utilizing both the Iris and the Palm Vein patterns in access control and encryption communications. Wilsonville, Oregon. Clearance: Top Secret.
“Find Ericksen and get him on a secure line immediately.” “Yes, sir.”
Ericksen heard his smartphone ring and picked it up, “Hello.” “Mark, this is Bob at Three Letters Virginia. The big boss requests
your presence in his office at nine this morning. It’s urgent.”
“All right. I’ll have to cancel my appointment with Three Letters Maryland this morning.”
“The director will try to re-arrange your appointment after your meeting.”
&nbs
p; Ericksen was escorted into the CIA Director’s soundproof confer- ence room on the 7th floor.
“Hello, Mr. Ericksen, I’m sorry you had to break your appoint- ment. This meeting is urgent. It concerns national security.” Sullivan picked up his phone. “Please send them in.”
The Deputy CIA Director, Susan Norstad, and the Director of the National Clandestine Service, Nate Sheridan, entered the office. Sullivan introduced Ericksen to them. Everyone took a seat facing Sullivan. Sheridan’s eyes widened as he stared at Ericksen like a deer startled by the glare of high-beam headlights.
“Hello Mark, good to see you again.”
Sullivan looked at him. “I’ll get right to the point. There is a Saudi terrorist mastermind who’s planning to attack the United States with nuclear suitcase bombs. We recently learned of his interest in acquiring your beta-tested classified biometrics systems to communi- cate with his sleeper cell leaders in the US. Frankly, we need your help.”
“Sir, are you asking me to be a CIA contractor?”
“Exactly. This is a critical opportunity for us to not only prevent the attack but to destroy this terrorist organization.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Our assets reported the mastermind got wind of your Saudi
distributor’s upcoming showcase event where you’ll be presenting the EyeD4 Access System, June 9–10 at the Jeddah Hilton. We believe he will contact you there.”
Ericksen’s eyes widened. “In other words, he will attempt to bribe me, and my task is to sell our classified encrypted biometrics systems to them and provide NSA with the back door?”
“Correct, you summed up the mission in a nutshell. Your combat leadership experience in the SEALs and your employment history with several defense contractors is excellent. We’ll brief your CEO in due time. We’ll need you to report back on June 2.”
Ericksen’s face lit up with a smile when he spotted Delgado in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel in McLean. The former Delta operative wore a leather jacket, blue dress shirt, and khaki slacks. He gave Ericksen a big hug. Delgado, a man of average height, muscular build, wavy black hair, and large brown eyes, smiled.
“Mark.” He hugged him again. “It’s great seeing you.”
They went to the bar and spent the next few minutes getting caught up. He raised his glass of beer to Delgado’s glass. “Cheers. How long have you been with the Agency?”
“Soon it will be three years. After I left the service in 2004, I went back to college, received my degree, and a few days later, the Agency knocked on my door. Their efforts were focused on hiring more former Special Ops guys with a language proficiency in Arabic. I’ve been working at the National Counterterrorism Center for the past year.”
“Great. Are you married?” asked Ericksen.
“Yep. I am married to a real sweet Cuban-American lady. She’s six months’ pregnant now.”
“Congratulations!” “How about you, Mark?”
“No, haven’t found the right woman yet.”
Delgado chuckled and slapped his back. “Playing the field, bro?”
“Fico, I wish I had the time to meet the right woman, but my primary focus is making our company successful. However, I do get lots of pressure from my mother and sister.”
“Templeton told me about your tech company, and the future looks great.”
“How is Templeton doing these days?”
“He’s still working for the Office of the Secretary of Defense. He directs a group within the Resource Management Office. However, he told me he’s tired of all the bureaucracy and is seeking a position with a high tech firm in California.”
If it wasn’t for Jeb’s help I wonder where I would be. Someday I hope to return the favor.
“He would be an invaluable asset, that’s for sure,” said Ericksen.
“I believe his wife is from Palo Alto and all of her family is back there.”
Delgado looked around the bar area and back to him. “You’ll never guess who I ran into in Washington last week!”
“Who?”
“Remember Dex, the Agency Ops guy at Bagram Air Base?” “Sure.”
“He’s still with the Agency, but on loan to the Treasury Depart- ment’s Counterterrorism and Financial Intelligence Division in Switzerland.”
“I thought his expertise dealt more with satellite intelligence and countermeasures.”
“The Agency sent him to MIT in 2004 for a master’s degree in computer science and encryption. He’s quite busy monitoring private numbered accounts. Most of the monies are derived from illegal activities, corruption, tax evasion, terrorist financing, and arms dealing.”
Ericksen shook his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the reported billions lost in Afghanistan and Iraq wound up in offshore banks.”
“I was on one mission back in February 2002, when we delivered thirty million bucks in packets of ten thousand dollars. They were shrink-wrapped in one hundred dollar bills and placed in foot lock- ers. We delivered them to a warlord in Spin Bolak.”
He leaned in and stared at Delgado. “Were you on any missions in Kandahar Province with Sadozai?”
Delgado nodded his head. “Yes, that’s the one. Sadozai served as the interim government’s intelligence officer and translator. Dawkins ran the mission.”
“Dawkins!” Ericksen’s eyes widened at the mention of his name and shook his head. “Thirty million dollars.”
“That’s not all. Besides the money, Dawkins and the bigwig promised the warlord we wouldn’t burn or confiscate his poppy seed fields if he cooperated.”
“What did the warlord give in return?”
“He had to provide us actionable intel on Al-Qaeda and Taliban leaders.”
He had heard about the DoD and the CIA giving large amounts of cash to major warlords and drug lords for their cooperation but didn’t know Dawkins had any involvement.
“Who else participated in the meeting beside Sadozai, Dawkins, and the big shot?” Delgado glanced back at Ericksen. “Pulaski.”
“Dawkins claimed the Agency had proof Sadozai was a spy, but when I confronted Dex, he said they had no evidence. Dawkins lied to me!”
“That son-of-a-bitch,” Delgado said.
Ericksen tensed up and made a fist. “Do you think the payoff came from the CIA or the DoD?”
“I don’t know, but I heard that the bigwig knew the warlord from the Soviet-Afghan war period.”
“Whatever happened to Pulaski after 2002?”
“Pulaski and I were part of Dawkins’ JSOC operations during the Iraq invasion in 2003. In late 2004, Dawkins retired and joined Stealth Dynamics, a high-powered private security firm, as head of recruit- ment and training. Pulaski assisted with the recruitment and training. Stealth Dynamics worked under State Department contracts in both Iraq and Afghanistan through the end of 2008, and I believe it continued through the end of this fiscal year.”
He raised his voice. “Recruitment and training. I’ll bet whoever hired him has a checkered past.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. The CEO of Stealth Dynamics helped arrange the meeting at Spin Bolak.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Chuck Huntington. He died last June in an airplane accident in Alaska. However, another individual you know played a role, though it could have been a case of standard operating procedures.”
“Who’s that?”
“His name is Nate Sheridan. He’s now the Director of the National Clandestine Service. You probably knew him as Clyde, the Agency’s chief of station and head of Predator Drone Ops in Afghanistan.”
He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Shit, I met him yesterday at Langley.”
“I didn’t make much of it at the time, but I saw Sheridan unload the foot lockers from the aircraft to Dawkins and Pulaski. From my vantage point on the tarmac I would swear on a stack of bibles, there were a few more foot lockers remaining in the cargo hold before they took off from Kandahar. However, you nev
er know for sure when you work in the shadows.”
Ericksen’s thoughts charged into high gear like a warrior faced with a fight or flight decision.
Maybe Dawkins developed a kickback scheme with Huntington to pull it off with the warlord. If that were the case, Pulaski would also get a percentage, but Sadozai, being an outsider, couldn’t be trusted to keep the information quiet from the interim government officials. He had to be killed, that’s it! Nothing else makes sense. How does Sheridan fit into this plan?
Ericksen had an epiphany. The dots connected. He now realized he had to get at the truth, even if it meant risking his life in the process. He took a deep breath and smiled.
“Fico, you just solved a major problem that has plagued me for years. You provided me with Dawkins’ ulterior motive for lying to me. Now I understand why Pulaski wouldn’t serve as my witness when I threatened to bring this criminal matter to the Admiral.”
Delgado gently slammed his hand on the bar. “Those fucking bastards!” Ericksen asked, “Do you have Pulaski’s telephone and address?”
“Yes. He lives in Miami. I’ll email you the information.”
17
fter dinner and a few drinks with an old high school buddy, Pulaski decided to call it a night. He returned to his seventh-floor condo on Ocean Drive. Entering the kitchen,