The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “Spasibo. Thank you,” Grigori Sechenov said softly as Tanya, his secretary for thirty years, handed him the envelope. It was marked top secret, for his eyes only. He waited for her to leave and close the doors before he broke the wax seal on the envelope. Inside was a single yellow sheet of paper. The message was short, requiring only a moment to read.

  He laughed aloud and reached for the ornate French telephone on his desk. The Americans were nibbling at the bait. It was now time to set the hook.

  “We’re almost to the Chagos Archipelago and Diego Garcia Island,” Colonel Crowell noted as he pressed a button. A loud whirring sound warned them that the first twenty feet of the SR-96’s nose was opening and folding back over the belly, exposing an eight-foot diameter portal in the nose for theYorktown ’s telescope.

  The same Ritchey-Chretien telescope and imaging electronics used on the Advanced KENNAN satellite had been installed in a tunnel that ran from the open hatch in the nose and back under the cockpit. The only difference was that the frame of the entire telescope was built of carbon-carbon composite and other radar-absorbent materials. Special baffles had also been installed on the walls of the telescope’s tunnel to trap any stray radar waves that might find their way in to it. In some ways, the SR-96 could be considered a stealth Advanced KENNAN.

  Director Jonathan Boswell looked at his watch. Less than twenty minutes remained until theYorktown was due to overfly the Gomazal Valley. He glanced nervously at the blank screen.

  Major George Thomas adjusted the controls on his monitor and decided to electronically invert the picture so it appeared right-side-up although they were actually flying up-side-down.

  “There, that’s better,” he muttered softly and leaned back to admire the view of Diego Garcia. He had the zoom lens set to wide angle, permitting him to see most of the island and locked-on to it. TheYorktown reacted instantly by gently lowering its nose to keep the island centered in the screen as it rushed toward it at almost seventeen thousand miles per hour.

  “Time to up-link, Major,” Jake Crowell called over the intercom. “Please do the honors.”

  “Just testing the tracking, Colonel. It seems to work fine.”

  “The up-link, Major,” Jake Crowell prodded.

  “Yes, sir,” Major Thomas answered with an awkward attempt at saluting while dressed in the bulky pressure suit. “Mustn’t forget the folks back home.”

  “Not if you expect to get paid,” Colonel Crowell replied dryly.

  Major Thomas reached up and pushed a button in the panel over his head. After consulting his preflight briefing notes, he turned the dial next to the button. A moment later, a small microwave antenna located in the tail of the SR-96 moved out from its storage place. Directed by a computer, it twisted and turned. It then broadcast a brief message.

  A MILSTAR satellite twenty-two thousand miles overhead heard the message and, after first verifying its authenticity, responded. A lamp located by the switch next to Major Thomas’ hand flashed on.

  “We’re on the link, sir,” George Thomas announced. “We can start broadcasting anytime you want.”

  “Then do it, Major,” Colonel Crowell ordered. “They must be getting anxious. Just send them the monitor channel; we’ll save the raw data for post-mission analysis.”

  Major Thomas nodded and selected another switch. An instant later, the information being displayed on their monitors was beaming up to the MILSTAR satellite overhead. The satellite immediately retransmitted the information to another MILSTAR satellite located over the continental United States. The image information was then transmitted to earth by the second MILSTAR satellite to a dish antenna located on the roof of the CIA headquarters.

  “Ah,” Director Boswell muttered, obviously relieved by the flutter projected on the theater screen, “I think we’re about to have a look at Diego Garcia.”

  The screen flashed once or twice and then the image of a large atoll appeared on the screen. They were watching a high-resolution television broadcast from space in real-time and in full color. Shaped roughly like the outline of the continent of Africa, the string-like island wriggled around a large lagoon. Diego Garcia’s airport, which serves as a forward American air base during times of conflict, dominated the western side of the island. Its single twelve-thousand-foot runway pointed to the northeast, toward Iraq and the Gomazal Valley. During the Gulf War, the runway was lined wingtip to wingtip with B-52 bombers. Now only a solitary C-141 transport remained.

  “As you can see from the shadows from the mountains, it’s late afternoon there, about 5:45,” Jonathan Boswell noted.

  Awed like children watching a magic show, those in the auditorium watched in silence as the island rushed by, followed by the vast emptiness of the Indian Ocean. Several minutes later, the barren southern coast of Oman came into view. Beyond was the southern Persian Gulf.

  Major Thomas pulled out a map of the Persian Gulf as he studied his monitor. Although he was still five hundred miles away, he could easily make out the rugged outline of the gulf coastline. Near the top of the monitor, he could just make out the outline of an island. He compared it to his map and smiled—he had made his decision.

  “I bet five bucks he goes for it.” A voice broke the silence that had dominated the auditorium for the last ten minutes while those in attendance watched the travelogue transmitted by theYorktown . The image on the screen showed the blue of the gulf with a large island just peeking over the horizon.

  “Goes for what?” Jonathan Boswell demanded.

  One of the Air Force generals, Lieutenant General James Danforth, Commander of Air Combat Command, answered, “Qassar Abu Sahir.”

  “Qassar Abu Sahir?” Director Boswell repeated, obviously puzzled.

  “It’s a small island just off the coast of Bahrain well known to any air reconnaissance aircrew who ever flew in the Middle East,” the general said, his voice betraying his gleeful anticipation.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a trade secret,” General Danforth replied mischievously.

  Bahrain now filled the horizon, as everyone in the room turned toward the three-star general in the fifth row.

  “Jim,” the president growled impatiently, “if you ever hope to get that fourth star, you had better explain right quick.”

  The scene on the screen shifted slightly to the right as theYorktown ’s nose moved. Then it froze, locked-on to a small island off the coast of Bahrain.

  “I suspect you shall see for yourself in a few more minutes, Mr. President,” the general said. “Back when I was flying Blackbirds, we used Qassar Abu Sahir as an image-resolution verification facility. I suspect little has changed in the last dozen or so years. And I’ll bet a dollar to a nickel we’re about to have a phenomenal demonstration of the SR-96’s telescopic resolution.”

  Everyone turned back toward the screen just as the image zoomed- in, filling the screen with a panoramic view of several miles of Bahrain’s western coast. Suddenly, the scene shifted and what was clearly an airport filled the screen.

  “He’s found the airport,” General Danforth said as the scene stabilized. With one final correction, the scene shifted back slightly to the left and the image zoomed-in again. Now the screen was filled with a picture of several hundred yards of ocean beach that lined a small island about a kilometer offshore from the main island of Bahrain. Whitish blobs, some arranged in rows, were scattered here and there along the expanse of sand.

  “Just offshore of Bahrain is a.…” General Danforth began to explain as the camera zoomed-in yet again, this time on one of the rows of white dots.

  “Magnificent! Fantastic!” someone exclaimed. The screen now showed only thirty yards of the beach, with five blonde women sunbathingau naturel on large towels, buns to the sun.

  “As I was saying,” General Danforth continued when the commotion died down, “offshore of Bahrain is a nudist colony favored by Scandinavians, especially during the winter months. Needless to say, we used it as a navigational l
andmark whenever we flew a Blackbird mission from Mildenhall in the UK to the gulf. Wow!”

  The room was instantly filled with cheers and whistles as the five young ladies rolled over onto their backs in unison, perhaps in response to a timer so that they would tan evenly.

  “I thought Bahrain was Moslem?” somebody commented.

  “It is,” he replied, “but the Bahrainians are pragmatic. They let westerners do their thing as long as they are discreet. The nudist colony pays a hefty rent for that island, so the Bahrainians simply ignore their funny ways.”

  “Thank you, General Danforth,” Director Boswell said, “for what can only be described as a graphic demonstration of theYorktown ’s telescopic resolution.”

  Lazarus Keesley laughed politely while he watched the screen. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that the camera was mounted in a helicopter hovering perhaps a hundred feet off the ground, not a hundred miles in space. Even though there was some shaking in the picture, the scene was held remarkably stable by some control system, and he was able to identify the people on the screen as women. Although he doubted he could identify any of them individually, they all had blonde hair and several wore sunglasses. He unable to make anything more of their faces; the fine detail was lacking although he could tell one was wearing a bright red lipstick.

  Suddenly, the scene shifted. The sunny beach was replaced by a panoramic view of Kuwait and the deserts of Iraq. Near the top of the picture was a line of mountains.

  “I guess our intrepid aviators are satisfied that their camera works and have decided to go back to work,” Director Boswell quipped. “I believe those are the mountains where the Gomazal Valley is located.”

  The scene gradually grew as the SR-96 hurtled toward the mountains. Suddenly, the view shifted again. First, it focused on a large lake or reservoir.

  “He’s got the Dukan Reservoir!” Director Boswell exclaimed. He glanced at a photograph in his hand. “The Gomazal Valley should be somewhere in the bottom center of the screen, in these mountains.”

  They waited impatiently for a few minutes while theYorktown flew toward its target. Apparently uncertain of its exact location, the SR-96’s crew let the distance shorten before zooming-in for a closer look at it. A second later, the image zoomed-in. They all could clearly see the hills rimming the valley, although the valley floor was still hidden by the oblique angle.

  “In just a few minutes,” Director Boswell said anxiously in anticipation of their imminent intelligence coup, “when theYorktown is just a bit higher in the sky, we will see.… What the hell was that!”

  A flash appeared over the valley—then another and another. A few seconds later, dozens of the little flashes were visible; smoke began to drift from each flash.

  “Fireworks?” someone suggested.

  “They saw us coming!” Director Boswell exclaimed. “But how?”

  In stunned silence, the room full of men watched the pyrotechnic display. The smoke quickly covered the valley. They watched for nearly five minutes as theYorktown drew ever closer to the mysterious valley. An occasional yellow flash penetrated the cloud as still more smoke rockets exploded in the already dense smoke cloud.

  The screen went blank as theYorktown ’s crew prepared to fire their rocket engines to reenter the atmosphere and return to land at Groom Lake.

  Everyone remained quietly seated in the auditorium for a minute or two, not certain of what they should do. Finally, the president spoke.

  “Mr. Director,” he said gravely, “does this mean that the Russians have just successfully frustrated a multi-million-dollar mission flown by a ten billion-dollar aircraft with a couple thousand dollars worth of fireworks?”

  Director Jonathan Boswell cleared his voice. “Yes, Mr. President,” he replied meekly, “it would appear so.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “How the hell did they see us coming?” CIA Director Jonathan Boswell demanded. Seated behind his desk, he looked around the room. President Hayward sat in the wingback chair to Director Boswell’s right, staring apathetically at him. The strategy session they had planned to hold immediately after the intelligence coup of the decade had been turned into the post-mortem for the fiasco of the year.

  Director Boswell continued to survey the room. The rest of his visitors were seated, like the president, in black leather upholstered chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of his desk. Next to the president was Secretary of Defense Gilbert Van Dyne, then Lazarus Keesley, and finally, General Danforth, Commander of the Air Combat Command, and therefore the man ultimately responsible for the SR-96 missions.

  “I don’t think that they did,” General Danforth answered, breaking the deadly silence. “According to the data up-linked through MILSTAR, the SR-96 wasn’t painted by any radar from the time it left the LA area to the time it was over Oman.”

  “But that’s less than a thousand miles from that goddamn valley.” Director Boswell glanced at the map spread out on his desk. “Less than five minutes flying time, I would guess.”

  “More like three or four minutes, Mr. Director,” General Danforth replied. “And that’s not the half of it. Remember I said ‘painted’. That means a radar beam of some type was detected by the electronics aboard the SR-96. It doesn’t mean thatYorktown was actually detected by the radar at all. In fact, it wasn’t until five minutes after theYorktown overflew Iraq that our ELINT satellites detected any increase in Russian radar activity. By that time theYorktown was over eastern Europe, beginning its reentry.”

  President Hayward faced toward Lazarus Keesley. “What do you make of all of this, Lazarus? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

  Lazarus sucked on his favorite briar pipe, allowing smoke to drift out of the corner of his mouth. He lowered his pipe and placed it in the ashtray on the table next to his chair.

  “Well, Mr. President,” he began slowly, “I really have to agree with General Danforth. The whole mission profile was designed to avoid premature detection—flying over the southern oceans, coming up on Oman from the Indian Ocean and all that, I mean. From what General Danforth just told us, we succeeded. Obviously, somebody warned them we were coming.”

  “Who?” President Hayward demanded.

  “Our favorite garden variety pest, the mole,” Lazarus explained glumly. “Who else?”

  “Mole?” General Danforth exclaimed, glancing nervously around the room.

  “We’re having a little problem, General,” Jonathan Boswell admitted, cautiously choosing his words one at a time, “at Groom Lake.”

  “Groom Lake!” General Danforth cried. “That’s where we’re testing the B-3 prototype!”

  “Calm yourself, Jim,” Director Boswell snapped. “The problem is somewhere else—Hangar 18.”

  “That’s the ATASF, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Lazarus Keesley answered. “Obviously, the mole probably reported the activity around Hangar 18 and perhaps even reported the takeoff time. We just don’t know yet.”

  “You mean to tell me that Groom Lake has been penetrated, and I wasn’t informed!” General Danforth protested angrily.

  “Yes,” President Hayward snapped. “By my orders. Only security people were to be involved because I didn’t want every man jack in the military to know about it. That also includes you.”

  Chastised, General Danforth gazed down at the oriental rug that covered the hardwood flooring of Director Boswell’s office.

  “Besides,” the president continued, “the problem we’re having at the ATASF development center isn’t the reason we’re sitting in this room. What I want to know is what the hell those Russian bastards are up to now?”

  “Obviously, we have to find out what they’re doing in that goddamn valley,” Secretary of Defense Van Dyne said, “but how?”

  “HUMINT is the only way,” Director Boswell replied. “We have to get somebody into that valley and take a look-see.”

  “We have several assets in Iraq,” Lazarus noted, “but they’re
passive agents. They just stand in a doorway and watch. None of them is trained or even young enough to sneak through the desert to take some pictures. Remember that they have a whole division surrounding the area, plus those Russian border guards up in the hills. That place is swarming with security.”

  “Agreed,” Jonathan Boswell replied. “I was thinking of someone else.”

  “Who?” the president inquired.

  “A contract agent,” Director Boswell answered. “We used him in Afghanistan and as well as in Iraq several times. Natural outdoors man, the sort of man you could drop in the middle of a forest armed with nothing but a knife, and he’d come out a week later five pounds heavier because of all of the good food he found.”

  “The Indian?” Lazarus questioned. “He told us he never wanted to do another job after that last trip to Iraq.”

  “The Indian?” President Hayward asked with a puzzled expression. “What Indian are you talking about?”

  “Roger Fontaine,” Director Boswell responded. “However, he’s only one-eighth Indian. In fact, he looks more French than anything. However, he can slip through the woods, jungle, or even an arid desert without leaving a trace or making a sound. He knows more ways to kill a man than a ninja. However, as Lazarus pointed out, he’s had enough. He’s retired, or so he says. He’s living someplace in Idaho.”

  “And you think you can get him out of retirement?” the president asked.

  “Money talks, Mr. President.”

  “Just how much talking are you planning to do?”

  “Would you pay a half million dollars to know what’s in that valley, Mr. President?”

  “I’d go the full million, Jonathan,” the president answered without hesitation.

  “Da, da,” Grigori Sechenov snarled angrily. “Did they see what’s in the valley?”

  “Ya ne znaya, General. I don’t know, General,” Major General Yakov Sakharovsky responded sullenly. “But I don’t think so.”