Virus

by Bill Buchanan

  “About six-fifteen, sir.”

  Rubbing his aching head, he struggled to decide if this was morning or evening. At this stage, it was easier to ask. “a.m. or p.m., Sam? How long was I under?”

  “It’s early morning, General. You’ve been out nearly three hours.”

  Mason groaned after the realization struck home. There was another problem. There must be. Napper wouldn’t wake him up with good news. Mason opened the curtains and cut up the lights. Still squinting, he looked at Sam and spoke quietly. “What’s the problem?”

  Sam placed a set of satellite photographs on the conference table in front of him. In less then fifteen seconds, Mason had seen all he needed to see. Bold black arrows drawn across the photographs told the story of massive Iraqi troop movements.

  “Looks like the Iraqis are going to be the first bunch out of the box, sir.” Napper’s tone was matter-of-fact.

  “What do you make of it?” Mason had already formed his opinion but wanted to compare it against Napper’s for a sanity check.

  “I think we’re watching the prelude to the second Gulf War, General. The Iraqis are looking for a little oil rich waterfront property, something with a view of the Gulf. It could be more complicated than that, but I doubt it.”

  “It could be an exercise,” Mason said wearily, but he didn’t believe it.

  “No sir. Not likely. Not on the Kuwaiti border.” Napper spoke in a confident voice.

  “Iraq will no doubt claim these troop movements are an exercise.” Mason wanted to probe the depth of Napper’s conviction.

  “Placing Iraqi troops on the border of Kuwait is an inherently dangerous situation, General. Kuwaiti prudence demands that their troops stick close to the Iraqis, and having their troops in close proximity is dangerous. All the Iraqis need is an excuse.”

  “They may need no excuse at all.” Mason spoke pragmatically.

  “They’ve done it before,” Napper agreed.

  Mason concluded Napper’s analysis was down-to-earth and he agreed with it. He wished he didn’t. Mason looked at Napper. “So how should we respond?”

  Napper spoke carefully and slowly, as if he were trying to avoid error. His tone was a combination of confidence and grave concern. “First, consider who needs to know: the President, the Kuwaitis, and the Saudis. Second, consider the assets we have in the immediate area: nothing, not a damn thing.” Napper paused, culled out one of the satellite photos, then pointed to a fleet of ships in the Arabian Sea steaming south, away from the action. “Here. A single carrier group within a twenty-four-hour sail of the Persian Gulf. But what good are they? For all practical purposes, the group is useless. Every aircraft and missile’s been grounded.” Napper’s tone shifted to one of pressing importance. “Iraq’s got to be planning a ground war, and they’ll be in one hell of a big hurry to get it won and over with. They can’t know any better than we do when our armada will be set right.”

  Mason placed his head in his hands then judiciously considered Napper’s analysis. There was silence for an extended period while Mason sorted through what he thought. He found this type of mental exercise physically exhausting. Minutes later, he looked at Napper and spoke as concisely as he could. “The elements of surprise and readiness cannot be overrated in this situation. Considering the virus, the question of air superiority is a wash. If Iraq surprises Kuwait and strikes decisively with sufficient force, the war could be over in one week or less. If, on the other hand, Iraq loses the element of surprise and Kuwait is prepared, the ground war would likely be a bloody battle of attrition.”

  Napper nodded agreement. “So the Iraqi keys to Kuwait are surprise and readiness?”

  Mason spoke slowly and quietly, rubbing his eyes once again. “The sooner they strike, the shorter the war. Time is everything.”

  “Then—it’s like a horse race.”

  “But the race has started,” Mason sighed. “The Iraqis have bolted out of the gate.”

  “So we’re the spoilers. We eliminate the element of surprise.”

  “We do.” Mason’s expression was determined, his voice urgent. “We tell Kuwait to position their troops opposite the Iraqi forces and make ready for a ground war. We don’t know when and we don’t know where, but Iraq is going to attack.”

  The Squeeze, 12113/2014, 1627 Zulu, 11:27 AM. Local

  The White House,

  Washington, D.C.

  The President’s melancholy mood mirrored the gloomy sky outside the Oval Office. There was progress on the virus, but Mason’s crew wasn’t moving fast enough to keep up with the Iraqis. The Iraqi Republican Guard was rolling, taking positions along the Kuwaiti border. Placing the Allied operations plan on his desk, the President peered over his reading glasses at Clive Towles, the national security advisor. “I don’t like it. These schedules allow far too much slack.”

  Towles was noncommittal and spoke objectively. “They gave you what you asked for, Mr. President. It’s a big mistake to squeeze Mason—like squeezing water from a rock.” The President discounted Clive’s observation then laid out the set of satellite photographs taken over Kuwait. “You’ve seen these?”

  “I have. We wired these photographs along with our recommendations to Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.”

  “Yes, yes.” The President’s tone was impatient. “Any response?” He looked apprehensive.

  Towles sighed. “The Kuwaitis plan a detailed evaluation tomorrow, but their initial position was disappointing.” “Clearly I haven’t seen their response,” the President snapped. “What do they plan to do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” The President’s jaw went slack. His mind transitioned into a state of disbelief.

  “The Kuwaitis were warned about these troop movements in advance by Iraq. Iraq has assured them in writing that these military camps and troop movements are an exercise, part of their winter desert maneuvers. The Kuwaitis won’t do anything that might provoke the Iraqis.”

  “What does their military think about it?”

  “They don’t like it, of course, but then again, the Kuwaiti military doesn’t get a vote. At this point, it’s considered a political matter.”

  “It won’t be a political matter for long.” The President spoke in earnest. “Iraq will drive the Kuwaiti Army into the sea.”

  “If these events go unchanged, they most certainly will.” Clive’s serious-minded approach to this issue allowed for no nonsense.

  The President began drawing big red circles around the major work elements in the Allied op plan. “General Mason doesn’t know it, but he’s going to pull this schedule up.”

  “Mr. President, I’d suggest you take this matter up with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”

  “You can count on it. I want this virus situation turned around before things get out of hand in Kuwait. If the Iraqis get away with murder, others will surely follow suit.”

  “In my opinion, Mr. President, you’re overreacting.”

  The veins on the President’s forehead bulged and his face turned purple. “Damn it to hell, Clive! I’m trying to nip this problem in the bud before it gets out of hand. You got any better suggestion?”

  “Let the Kuwaitis solve their problem, Mr. President, and allow General Mason to solve ours.” His tone was businesslike and detached.

  The President decided, but he didn’t think. He knew that important decisions should never be made in the heat of anger but that didn’t slow him down. This was where he would draw his line in the sand. His tone was final. “Mason will solve our problem all right, but sooner, much sooner than he expects.”

  Reasoning, 12113/2014, 1830 Zulu, 11:30 A.M. Local

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  Without notice, the President called Mason over the direct video conference line. The President, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and Clive Towles on line in Washington— Napper, Craven, and Mason on line under Cheyenne Mountain.

  Following the obligatory “Good morning, General,” th
e President pressed the reason for the call.

  Mason expected the call concerned the Iraqi situation and placed his latest set of satellite photographs on the conference table.

  “General Mason, I want you to pull up your op plan. Accelerate it in light of the situation developing in the Middle East.”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs spoke next before Mason had a chance to think. “The President’s right, Slim. You can take slack out of any schedule. Throw more people at it, smother it with money, just pull it up.”

  Mason considered the chairman’s proposal. No self-respecting manager ever turned down an offer of additional resources. “Lincoln Lab needs additional people and prototype aircraft. They couldn’t help us out immediately though. Additional aircraft wouldn’t be available for months.” Mason looked at the President. “What would make you happy? Tell me exactly what you’re looking for.” The President did not hesitate. “I want this Star Wars fiasco cleared up before Iraq invades Kuwait.”

  At first, Mason couldn’t believe what the President was saying. They expected Iraq to invade Kuwait in one week or less. “I understand your concern about Kuwait, Mr. President, but we’ve covered this ground before. We’re in this predicament today because we buckled under pressure. We compromised for all the wrong reasons, got in a hurry, and screwed up. Our response to pressure was inappropriate then, it should not be repeated now.” Mason looked at Craven. “What do you think? Frankly, I’m at a loss as to how to deal with it.”

  “I agree. Go with your gut. Do what you think is right.” He thought, but did not say, Political pressure is bullshit.

  Mason allowed himself a moment of self-reflection, then spoke quietly. “Mr. President, can we speak privately, one-on-one?”

  “Very well, General.” Both rooms emptied. After a few moments’ shuffling, the conversation resumed.

  “We have conflicting orders from you, Mr. President. Move now but do it right. If we take the time to do it right, there is still a very good chance that we could fail.” Mason paused, letting his sobering statement sink in. “If we move now, we scuttle all chances for success.”

  “Let me be clear, General Mason.” The President’s face scrunched up. “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe if you moved today that you’d scuttle your chances.” The President paused, then revealed his willingness to compromise. “What really matters is that you believe it.”

  “I do.” Mason’s two words sounded with resolve.

  “My job is to push. Your job is to deliver.” The President paused, eyeing Mason’s expression. “As soon as you possibly can.”

  Mason’s expression immediately eased. “We’ll march to that order, Mr. President.”

  PART

  9

  PREPARATION

  DAY 8-

  DECEMBER 14, 2014

  25

  Family Plans, 12/14/2014, 1500 Zulu, 8:00 A.M. Mountain

  Standard Time

  Space Station Hope

  Hope, like Freedom, was an elaborate maze of rooms, corridors and concealed explosive devices. Staring at Freedom's construction blueprints, Pasha highlighted the lethal hazards on his screen. He entered a key totaling the number of personnel mines and lasers, then groaned an anguished sigh. He’d never realized how many hazards were woven into the space station’s fabric. None had ever failed. As far as he knew, none had ever been detonated defending the space station. The lethal security system had never given him any cause for concern until now. On Freedom, PAM controlled the space station’s security system.

  Across the room, Gonzo and Scott were putting together a list of equipment they’d need. Hearing Pasha’s distress, they came immediately.

  Inside Hell Fire, Mac worked reconfiguring the reconnaissance bay. Removing large pieces of equipment, Mac made room for Pasha and the additional gear they’d need on Freedom.

  As Scott and Gonzo approached, they couldn’t help but notice the warm look and feel of Pasha’s work space. Almost simultaneously, as if on cue, their eyes were drawn to the poster-size montage showing pictures of his wife and three small children. There was something wonderful, almost indescribable about those pictures. There was a warmth about them which humanized the stark, cold nature of this colossal tin can. Intrigued, Gonzo stared wistfully into the eyes of Pasha’s little girl. Her expression was perfectly relaxed. Her bright, wide eyes conveyed the most marvelous sense of unconditional love he had ever seen captured on film. Someone must love her a tremendous lot, Gonzo thought. He wanted to ask Pasha about his little girl, but decided to wait until the time was right. Gonzo loved children, he loved everything about them. He’d wished many times over for a wife and children, but somehow he’d always arrived too late.

  Glancing at Scotty, he quietly sighed. He knew she would never care for him, she’d loved Jay since high school, but he could always hope. Her eyes, her voice, the look and feel of her hair drove him—to think about something else. After a brief reflection, he just felt lucky to be near her.

  When Pasha spoke, reality came crashing down around him. “We need a demolition team.”

  Gonzo noticed numerous icons highlighted in reverse video on Pasha’s computer screen. “What are these?” “They’re the problem. Each flashing icon’s a blunderbuss.” Gonzo looked puzzled so Pasha spelled it out clearly. “An explosive personnel mine.”

  Gonzo studied the layout carefully, noting each location. “We’ll need the location coordinates assimilated into our datapacks.” He paused for a few moments, then spoke in an objective voice. “They must be sensitive to something. What triggers them?”

  “PAM,” Pasha spoke cryptically. There was a tone of certainty in his voice. “PAM senses body heat then detonates the blunderbuss once you’re in range.”

  “We’d better come up with some way to safely detonate those things.” Scott’s pragmatic assessment was unemotional.

  “We can do it,” Pasha responded objectively. “We have Preparation a small, remotely controlled electric vehicle called the boomer. It’s a minesweeper built specifically for this purpose.”

  “Good.” She collected her thoughts, then continued. “If Jackson’s Black Hole flies undetected and Wild Bill punches through, Mason plans to send up the Marines. Otherwise, we’re on our own.”

  Pasha considered their alternatives then chose his words carefully. “We’ll train assuming we’re on our own. After a few days’ practice, we’ll be a first-rate demolition team.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Gonzo agreed. “Train for the worst-case. It’s the only way to be sure.”

  “Apparently Jackson’s ace in the hole didn’t pan out,” Scott lamented quietly. “We’ll get the story firsthand in a half hour or so, but Colonel Napper believes Wild Bill’s only got a fifty-fifty chance.”

  “He’s risking his life for us,” Gonzo added somberly.

  Pasha grimaced. Tension around his mouth caused him to look older. “He’s a courageous man, putting his life on the line like this. I wouldn’t want to walk in his shoes.”

  “The man’s a warrior.” Scott spoke with a quiet tone of admiration. She looked Gonzo in the eyes and smiled a sad sort of smile. Our shoes don’t look much better, she thought, but did not say. Her thoughts connected with Gonzo’s. In many ways, they were very much the same.

  Scott, Gonzo, and Pasha then made plans for clearing the blunderbuss mines from Freedom. Once everyone knew what to do, the conversation shifted to Pasha’s family.

  “She’s beautiful,” Gonzo said, pointing to the little girl’s picture. “Who took this?”

  Pasha’s face beamed. The concern shown only moments earlier seemed to disappear. “That’s my favorite picture.” He spoke softly with a twinkle in his eye. “I took it after countless hours of waiting.”

  Gonzo gazed fondly at the picture, then watched Scott in quiet admiration. Her eyes smiled a teary sort of smile.

  “She must love you very much,” Scott said quietly.

  “My children are the greates
t fans I’ll ever have.” Struggling to control his emotions, he bit his lip. “I need them.”

  “They need you home,” Gonzo lamented.

  Scott's voice sounded with renewed resolve. “You will see your family soon, Pasha.”

  Pasha’s gaze was distant, unfocused. His thoughts were of home—twenty-two thousand miles away.

  The Gamble, 12/14/2014, 1530 Zulu, 8:30 A.M. Local

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  There was a somber silence over the video conference line as Scott and her crew onboard Hope watched Thomas Jackson’s briefing without comment. Mason and his general staff on one end, Thomas Jackson and Wild Bill Boyd on the other.

  Mason studied the two faces on screen. Thomas Jackson, the radar expert from MIT Lincoln Lab, and Lieutenant Colonel William “Wild Bill” Boyd sat silently, their expressions unfathomable. The Black Hole prototype test data was undeniable, the conclusion inescapable. Jackson was a beaten man; Boyd’s chances were fifty-fifty at best.

  Thinking about his briefing, Jackson grimaced. There was precious little more to say. His plan to hide the experimental prototype with the masking equipment used in the Phantom Hawk had been a grave error. The only bright spot on the horizon was that they’d discovered the problem in the lab before it was too late. Jackson gazed with trepidation at Mason. He had no silver bullets, no magic fixes. Only a few suggestions which might marginally improve the situation.

  Wild Bill surveyed the faces of the general staff and those onboard Hope. He wished he was someone else, anyone else.

  Colonel Napper addressed a question to Jackson. “Why couldn’t we remotely control the prototype from the ground?”

  Jackson’s expression was placid, his body motionless. His mind focused on his response. “We could remotely control the aircraft, but our chances are better with a pilot in the cockpit. I say this for two reasons. First, there is a very slim chance that PAM would pick up our control transmissions, and second, if something goes wrong, our chances for success improve by five percentage points with a skilled pilot in the cockpit.”