Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  “Fine, sir.”

  Baxter laughed, a deep belly laugh with lots of white teeth. “Alright, McHugh, let’s get this straight. Inside this program, I’m Rick and you’re Brendan. No ‘sirs’ allowed. Got it?”

  Brendan smiled. “Sure, Rick.”

  They took a long walk through a cubicle farm, passing through two security checkpoints along the way. Just when Brendan’s knee was hurting enough to ask for a break, they arrived at a conference room. Baxter gestured at a small refrigerator with a glass front, then busied himself with a laptop and projector. Brendan took a bottle of water from the fridge and sank into a chair, gritting his teeth as he bent his knee to a ninety-degree angle.

  Baxter fired up the overhead projector. The image had the ONI seal and the title, Project Briefing: FEISTY MINNOW. Below that it said TOP SECRET, followed by a paragraph of legalese. Baxter cleared his throat.

  “First things first,” he said, opening up a manila folder. He slid a single sheet of paper across the table. “Before I can brief you into the program, I need you to sign this. Read it first—I mean it, this is not your ordinary nondisclosure form.”

  Brendan accepted the sheet and scanned it. Baxter was right, it was much more stringent than the typical NDAs Brendan was used to, but it basically came down to one thing: he could never, ever, under any circumstances, talk to anyone about the program. Ever.

  His pen made a scratching sound in the quiet room as he signed the form. Baxter looked strangely relieved when Brendan passed the sheet back across the table.

  Baxter stayed seated as he triggered the next slide. It was a world map with seven red dots sprinkled across it. Brendan scanned the locations: Eastern Med, Baltic Sea, Sea of Japan near North Korea, South China Sea, Caribbean, Indian Ocean, and the Med off North Africa.

  “Intel is about collecting and analyzing information,” Baxter began. “These are all places where we’d like to have more information than we’re currently able to gather. SIGINT, ACINT, MASINT, IMINT—you name, we need it.”

  Brendan held up his hand. “Come again, Rick? I’m not sure I’m following all your INTs. I know SIGINT is signals intelligence, comms and stuff like that, but what are the others?”

  Baxter gave another deep laugh. “Sorry, we’re just like any other agency with our acronyms. ACINT is acoustics, and MASINT is measurement and signatures, which is a catchall term for everything else, like nuclear detectors—”

  “It was you!” Brendan exclaimed. “The sensor we put on the North Korean TEL, when I got injured. You were on the other end of the line.”

  Baxter gave him a look full of meaning. “That program is outside the scope of this briefing, Brendan, but that type of operation could fall under my purview.” He turned back toward the screen.

  “Sorry,” Brendan replied, blushing. “It’s just that ever since we met, I felt like I knew you somehow.”

  “Continuing,” Baxter said, without turning around. “These are all places where we would like to have more information to supply to our intelligence services, but lack ways to gather it. Naval ships and submarines are too obtrusive, and frankly most nations these days are just more aware of their EM footprint. The Chinese, for example, are pretty savvy. They simply shut down all comms when there is a US Navy ship within twenty miles of their coast.” He smiled as he flipped to the next slide. “What we need is a less obvious way to gather information.”

  A picture of a sailing ship filled the screen. Brendan scanned the image. A forty-some-foot sloop, a real beauty, a more current model of the ones he’d sailed at the Academy.

  “Operation Feisty Minnow will commission seven sailing vessels as clandestine intelligence-gathering platforms. The ships have been specially configured with the latest hardware, all of it hidden onboard. The crews are all trained intel officers, but they pose as rich people with money to burn and a passion for sailing.”

  Brendan sat back in his chair. “So they sail along the coast of these countries and gather intel along the way?”

  Baxter nodded. “They’re very careful to stay outside the twelve-mile boundary, in international waters, but yes, that’s pretty much the idea.”

  “How does it work? For the crew, I mean.”

  “Well, you get a new identity, a cover story with a bank account, and a platinum credit card that never runs out of money.”

  Brendan whistled. “No expense reports? What’s the downside?”

  Baxter frowned. “Brendan, this is serious. If you’re discovered, some of these countries won’t give a rat’s ass about international waters, and the chances of a Navy ship being able to intervene is nil. You’re on your own. Each ship in the Minnow fleet is equipped with an automatic scuttling system. If you’re taken by a foreign power, there are no extract options and the US will deny all knowledge of your existence.”

  Brendan looked at the picture of the sailing ship for a long time. “And you want me to do what?”

  “I want you to skipper one of these boats, probably the one in the IO. You’d have a crew of five, plus yourself, but four of them are likely going to be IT techs. They may know nothing about sailing. You and one other person are in charge of all sailing and navigation.”

  “How long is the cruise?”

  Baxter shook his head. “You’re not hearing me, Brendan. This is a command. Do you understand? You’d be the captain of a naval command. This will be your ship, your life, your responsibility, for the next three years.”

  Brendan sat back in his chair, for once forgetting about the throbbing of his knee. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Baxter, but this was not it. A sailboat as an intelligence spy boat? His own command? What if he got captured? He’d be held as a spy. What did that even mean?

  Baxter scratched at his jawline, his eyes scanning Brendan’s face. “Look, I’ve laid a lot of information on you today. Think about it. This is a commitment every bit as serious as Special Operations, maybe even more so. It’s not something to take lightly. You’re due back in DC on March first, right?”

  Brendan nodded.

  “Think about it and call me when you get back in town.”

  The phone in Brendan’s pocket buzzed, interrupting his reverie. He flipped open the clamshell of the prepaid mobile phone and shielded it from the sunlight. Very few people had this number.

  He recognized Marjorie’s home number.

  “Marjorie?”

  “Happy Valentine’s Day! How’s my favorite SEAL?”

  Brendan gave a wry smile. “Still with a broken flipper. How’d you get this number?”

  “Brendan, Don works for the CIA,” she said in a serious tone. “He can get me anything I want.” She paused. “Just kidding, I called your mother.”

  Brendan laughed. “Well, it’s good to hear your voice anyway.”

  “How are you doing, honey?” Marjorie’s tone took on a concerned note.

  “I’m good, Marje. Really, I am.”

  “You’re full of shit, Brendan. It’s the middle of the day and you answered the phone like I just woke you up.”

  “Marjorie, I’m good.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “When are you back in DC?”

  “A week from Monday. My convalescent leave ends March first.”

  “Okay, I want you to come visit me when you get back. Come for dinner. I’ll invite Liz and Don, if they’re in town.”

  “Sure,” Brendan said. He swallowed. “Is Liz still in DC?” He tried to keep his tone casual.

  “Why don’t you call her and find out?”

  Brendan started to answer, but Marjorie cut him off. “Brendan, call her. It’s Valentine’s Day, for Pete’s sake. Let her know you’re thinking about her.”

  “Marje, she’s married—”

  “Call her. Now. Promise me.”

  Brendan took a deep breath. “Alright, I’ll call her.”

  “Finally,” Marjorie said. “And dinner, too. Let me know when you get settled in DC.”

  Brendan stared at the phon
e after the conversation ended. He punched in Liz’s number, his finger hovering over the SEND button. He’d been able to dial the number from memory, from all the times he’d gotten to this point. But so far, he still hadn’t worked up the courage to actually make the call.

  He moved his finger to the DELETE button and watched the digits disappear one by one.

  Brendan thumbed his way to the phone book. It contained only three numbers. He keyed down to the last name and hit SEND.

  “Baxter.”

  “Hi, Rick, it’s Brendan. I’m in.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Estancia Refugio Seguro, Argentina

  04 August 2014 – 1400 local

  Rafiq latched the heavy steel door open and snapped on the light as he stepped into the vault.

  The wooden crate sat in the center of the room. The cargo. His mission for the last seven years. A big wooden box.

  He checked the temperature and humidity monitor on the wall and inspected the seals on the packaging. All secure. The same as they’d been every afternoon for the last seven years. Well, not every afternoon. He’d taken a one-week honeymoon with Nadine after their wedding, but even then they’d only gone to Buenos Aires, and he could have been back within a day at most.

  Rafiq rested his hand on the dried wood. Some days he was tempted to just open it and have a look inside. According to Hashem, everything he needed to complete his mission was in the container. But he was not to open it unless directed by Hashem himself. They also had a failsafe protocol to follow if his brother failed to make their monthly check-in and the backup comms plans also failed.

  He nodded to Farid and stepped out of the vault, then watched him lock the door and set the alarm. The man had aged in the last seven years—and not in a good way. Farid’s crewcut was solid gray and he walked with a slight stoop. Rafiq had no doubt of the man’s loyalty to him or their cause, but he feared there was some serious medical issue behind his sudden change in appearance. He frequently missed their daily workouts, and when he did attend, his performance was not up to par. Rafiq could not afford to have a sick man on his team.

  Farid slid the wine rack in place to conceal the vault entrance. The wine cellar, built into a mountain, was cool and shadowy around them. They were at the deepest point in the cellar, the spot where Don Javier kept his private stash of vintages under lock and key. Farid closed the door to the wire cage and snapped the padlock shut.

  “Tomorrow, boss?” Farid said. They spoke in Lebanese, their home dialect of Arabic. They always spoke in their native tongue when they performed their daily checks on the cargo. Otherwise, they had both become fluent in Spanish and spoke it with almost no accent. They sounded almost like locals.

  Rafiq hardened his tone. “Did you see the doctor as I told you?”

  Farid’s form stiffened. He cleared his throat. “Yes, boss.”

  “And?”

  “Cancer,” he said. “Pancreatic cancer. Inoperable.”

  Rafiq slumped against the nearest wine rack. He had expected something more benign, maybe a vitamin deficiency or a virus. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “Have you told Juanita yet?”

  Following Rafiq’s marriage to Nadine, both Farid and his brother, Jamil, had married their longtime girlfriends. They lived in twin bungalows on the edge of the vineyard.

  Farid’s shadow shifted as he shook his head. “I wanted to tell you first. I’m still strong, Rafiq, I can do the mission—if it comes to that. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “The doctor says I have less than six months to live. He says the last few months could be very painful.”

  “Ah, my friend, I am so sorry.” Rafiq embraced the man. He could feel how the flesh had melted off Farid’s frame. He should have seen it sooner. “Tell Juanita tonight—and tell your brother. We will take care of your family, you know that.”

  Farid nodded, wiping his eyes. “But the mission—”

  “I will handle the mission, Farid. Spend the time you have left with your family.”

  Rafiq turned on his heel and walked quickly to the front of the wine cellar, welcoming the afternoon sunlight. He shivered to himself.

  “Papa!”

  The boy running at him full tilt had a headful of dark curls and his mother’s eyes. Rafiq caught the child in both hands and tossed him into the air. The boy wrapped his arms tightly around Rafiq’s neck when he landed back in his father’s grasp. His grip was getting stronger every day; it amazed Rafiq how quickly the boy developed new skills. His curly hair pressed against Rafiq’s face, and he breathed in the scent of his son.

  His son. The idea still took his breath away. Before Nadine, he’d never even considered becoming a father. Now he was married with two children.

  “I wanted to go into the wine cellar to meet you and Uncle Farid, but Mama said I had to wait outside,” the boy said. He pulled back to study his father’s face. His gaze was thoughtful, warm, just like his mother’s.

  “And she’s right,” Rafiq replied. He poked the boy in the stomach. “But I’m free now.”

  Little Javier wriggled out of his arms to the ground. He gripped his father’s hand and began to pull him toward the path to the stables. “Mama is waiting with Consie at the stables.”

  Rafiq pretended to resist, but staggered forward when Javi redoubled his effort. “You’re too strong for me, son.” He shook the boy’s hand free and sprinted ahead. “I’m going to reach Mama first!”

  He threw a look over his shoulder. Javi’s nearly three-year-old legs churned as he ran after his father, a determined look on his face. They rounded the bend and the stables came into sight. Rafiq slowed to let his son catch up.

  Nadine turned to greet them, little Consuela in her arms. If anything, motherhood had made Nadine even more beautiful. It had given more curves to her athletic figure and added heft to her bosom—both of which Rafiq found very sexy—but it was more than that. He finally decided it was in her face: she glowed when she looked at her children, as if she couldn’t believe she had created these little beings from her own body.

  Javi put on a burst of speed and passed Rafiq, tagging his mother’s thigh with a loud smack of his hand. “I won, Papa. I won.”

  Rafiq came to a halt in front of Nadine. “You’re right, Javi, you won.”

  Nadine kissed him, then pinched his earlobe between her teeth. “You’ll get your consolation prize later, Papa,” she whispered with a wicked smile.

  “You can help me take the sting out of losing,” he whispered back, snatching a kiss from his wife and then planting one on the sleeping baby’s head.

  “Can I ride now? Can I?” Javi pleaded.

  Rafiq nodded to the ranch hand in the doorway. The man disappeared into the stable, returning a few minutes later leading a midnight-black pony fitted with a child’s saddle. He stopped the animal in front of Javi. The boy held a sugar cube on his open palm and the pony eagerly snapped it up. Javi giggled. “It tickles.”

  The stable hand helped the boy into the saddle and handed him the reins, but kept a firm grip on the pony’s bridle until they were safely inside the paddock. Javi whooped as he dug his heels into the pony’s flanks. The beast broke into a canter.

  Nadine handed the baby to Rafiq and stepped up onto the fence rails, calling out encouragement to her son in Spanish. Rafiq bit his tongue. He was still not completely comfortable with large animals, and certainly not with his three-year-old son riding a horse by himself. Nadine often laughed at his discomfort and called him a chico de ciudad, a city boy.

  Little Consuela stirred when she was handed over, then settled back to sleep, her lips pursed as she suckled an imaginary breast. In contrast to Javi, Consuela seemed more like her father. Fairer of skin, with deep, watchful eyes. Unlike her tornado of a brother, the baby almost never cried.

  Rafiq let the moment settle on him. His beautiful wife, eyes flashing, long, dark hair whipping around her face as she shouted out to her son. Javi, riding as if he’d been born in a saddle, let o
ut a laugh of pure joy as he urged the pony faster. Consuela reached out and gripped the pocket of his shirt—

  “Boss.” A hand touched his arm.

  Rafiq turned around. Jamil was panting. “There’s been news,” he said. “News about . . . home.” He handed Rafiq a smartphone.

  He had the web browser open to Al Jazeera, and a story about ISIS. Rafiq bristled. The so-called Islamic State fighters, nothing but a shell for Sunni extremists, were in the news all the time now. He and his men often lamented the fact that they were in South America when the real fight was back in Lebanon with their Hezbollah brothers. Rafiq always reinforced the necessity of their mission for Hashem, but deep inside even he sometimes wondered if what they were doing was worth it.

  “Read the article, Boss,” Jamil urged. His face was gray with worry.

  Rafiq scanned the news story. He was about to flick the text up when his thumb froze over the screen.

  ISIS forces attacked the small Lebanese village of Arsal, near the Syrian border, this morning. Initial reports are that the town was decimated by the Sunni extremists...

  Rafiq handed the baby to Nadine and ran for the house.

  His chest was heaving with effort and sweat darkened the neckline of his shirt when he reached the study. He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him. His hands shook so badly it took him three tries to get the wall safe open. He flipped to the back of the codebook, where there was a list of email addresses next to a column of code words.

  He booted up the computer, cursing the deliberate slowness of Microsoft Windows. Finally he was able to open his email. He typed in the email address from the codebook and put in a few lines of meaningless text in the body of the email. None of that mattered. He went back to the header and typed the phrase “sunrise service” in the subject line.

  He hit send.

  Rafiq gripped the edge of the desk. Don’t make assumptions. She’ll be alright. She has to be alright.

  In his mind he could see the streets of Arsal, his boyhood home. The cafe on the corner, the elementary school down the street, the park across the road where he was allowed to play by himself as his mother watched him from their second-story apartment. The same apartment where she still lived.