The War Planners Series

by Andrew Watts

  Admiral Manning said, “So, I know that you can’t talk about it, but how are you liking your new line of work?”

  Chase smiled. “At the State Department?”

  His father tilted his head. “Come, now. I won’t ask for details. But I knew Elliot when he first entered the CIA out of the Navy. And I know my son.”

  Chase nodded. “It’s an adjustment. Different than the Teams. But I like it. It’s…it’s like I’m playing a different sport. It still requires certain skills. I just need to develop a different set of them than I was using with the SEALs.”

  “That’s a good analogy. I’ve always found that when the Navy moved me to different assignments, it would take the first few months to really get acclimated to the new role.” He paused, a bit of sausage on his fork, halfway to his mouth. “I’m proud of you, Chase.”

  Now Chase was really worried. His father never spoke like that. Chase said, “Dad, can you at least tell me what happened?”

  His father looked like he was pondering it. Then he looked at the wall, as if he was seeing it play out in his memory.

  “I’m not supposed to—but my guess is that your clearance is at least as high as mine. I got a report of a submarine and an Iranian PC boat right next to each other off of Abu Musa. I sat next to the battle watch captain during the entire event. It boggles the mind to think that so much of our command and control is via typed instant messages back and forth between our units. Yet that’s the way it happens nowadays when the shit hits the fan. I swear it was easier in the Cold War. People still used radios back then. And they are supposed to still, but it’s redundant and slower to do so. Now we just watch events unfold in real time in little bits of text. If we’re lucky, there is a video feed, but so often there is not. A surfaced sub. That’s what the initial report was.”

  “I heard that. But I thought that signals intelligence confirmed all Iranian subs were in port.”

  The Admiral nodded. “They did. More than just SIGINT. We actually have satellite pictures of each and every Iranian submarine. So the Pentagon has concluded that there was no submarine off Abu Musa. CENTCOM believes that the lookout on the Porter was seeing things. But the good General has never served aboard a ship.”

  “I take it that you disagree.”

  “I’ve made my case to Fifth Fleet and CENTCOM. But I had no video evidence, no pictures, to back up the sailor’s sighting. Iran says we fired first at one of their innocent patrol boats, destroying it unprovoked. The men and women on that destroyer will tell you a different story. But they’re being told to keep their mouths shut while the investigation is going on.”

  “That’s crazy. Why?”

  “Because when you play the game at this level, it’s about more than just the simple truth. It’s about the infinite political ramifications. The politicians feel that it’s in our best interests to take it on the chin here. There is a lot of pressure to improve the US-Iran relationship. A lot of pressure.”

  Chase shook his head. “I can’t believe that. I mean…I can’t believe that our own leadership would go with Iran’s story over what our own sailors saw.”

  “Perhaps if there was more compelling video evidence. But there is not…so this little incident is going to be swept under the rug, and we’re going to let the Iranian military harass us just a little bit more in the Arabian Gulf. Courageous Restraint. That’s what we’re calling it now. It’s in our doctrine. Hell. I support the decisions of those men that pulled the trigger. They knew what they saw. Whether there was a sub or not, it doesn’t matter. If they were being shot at, they had every right to fire back. You can’t second-guess the men on the ground, especially if you weren’t there.”

  “I hear you.”

  The Admiral looked at his son and said, “Sometimes I think that I was meant for a different time. No officer worth his salt ever really wants to be at war. But sometimes I think that I would have been better suited to the days of real sea combat. Not this institutional hogwash that I have to deal with today. I am not meant for the diplomatic side of the Navy. And that is the type of man that becomes a four-star today.”

  Chase said, “I’m sorry, Dad.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “It’s alright. I appreciate you coming to see me. I’ll be flying back to the States tomorrow, tail between my legs. I’m relieved, effective immediately. They aren’t calling it that. Not with me. They’re letting me save a little face. I’ll be replaced with a two-star that has experience with Fifth Fleet Carrier ops. Good guy. He’ll do well.”

  “Where are they sending you?”

  “Norfolk. They’re going to put me in charge of the Ford until I retire.”

  “The Ford? Isn’t she almost operational?”

  “Not quite yet. She’s still in sea trials. I’ll be a figurehead. I’ll be like the Queen of England for America’s newest state-of-the-art supercarrier. With no enemy in sight. They’re putting me out to pasture. I’m not sure why they’re giving it to me, but I’ll take it.”

  Chase suspected that his father still had good friends in high places, and that the Ford was their way of throwing him a bone. His father had never been the same since his mother died. A part of him had gone with her. The other admirals knew that. And whether his father admitted it, he was a part of that good old boy network. He was just an unwilling participant in it.

  They finished their breakfast and made more small talk over coffee.

  Chase said, “Dad, do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Of course. Go ahead.”

  “Have you ever had a situation where one of your good friends was suspected of wrongdoing, but you thought he was innocent? And you had the power to influence the outcome?”

  He gave him a funny look. “I’m sure something like that has happened. But you know where I stand. It doesn’t matter if they’re a friend. If they did something wrong, they should answer for it.”

  “What if you weren’t sure if they really did anything wrong, but turning them in would ruin their career?”

  “What are we talking about here?”

  “Just a hypothetical. I need to play a little catch-ball.”

  “I’m not going to be telling you anything you don’t know already. Go to your friend and find out the truth.”

  Chase hesitated. “What if it were a close friend? Even family?”

  He looked alarmed. “Chase…what are you talking about?” The Admiral crossed his arms and looked at him out of the side of his eye. “You know where I stand on family too. Family always comes first. Everything else is a game. Now will you tell me what’s going on? Who are we talking about?”

  “Just a problem a friend has. I just wanted to get a smart old man to give me some sage advice.”

  The Admiral laughed, but he looked like he didn’t buy it. He did let it go, though, for which Chase was grateful. He looked at his watch again and asked his father if he would have any free time in Dubai before he left. Perhaps they could meet up in the city? His father politely declined. They walked out to the pier and bid each other goodbye.

  Walking down the pier toward the white government duty van that would take him back to Dubai, Chase’s phone vibrated.

  “Manning.”

  “Chase. It’s Waleed. Where are you?” He sounded tense. Upset.

  “Good morning, Waleed. I’m—”

  “I’m texting you an address. Get here as soon as you can.”

  “Why, what’s happened?”

  “It looks like we were too late. Pakvar got our man.”

  7

  Twenty-Four Hours Earlier

  Cheng Jinshan looked across the desk of the best oncologist in Dubai. He was also one of the best in the world, but that was not why Jinshan had sought him out for this examination. It was for his discretion. Jinshan knew that there were people in China who would love to know that he had a deadly form of cancer. He had made many enemies while serving as the head of China’s Central Commission for Discipline Inspection—the gover
nment body that had been formed to root out all corruption in Chinese politics. These enemies would use his cancer against him. He could not allow that.

  “So you are sure? There is no other test that you need to run to confirm this new information?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry. But I have seen this many times.”

  “But…what you were saying about the survival rate. Is there further testing that could allow me to know where I sit on the spectrum?”

  “Given when we identified this, the one-year survival rate for this type of cancer of the pancreas is approximately twenty to twenty-five percent.”

  “And if I am within that twenty-five percent? How long could I possibly have?”

  “The five-year survival rate is about five to six percent.”

  “Does this include surgery?”

  “Unfortunately, the malignancy has progressed beyond the point where surgical removal is possible. We will continue to monitor it to see how fast it is growing. The treatment that I would recommend is a combination of radiation and chemotherapy. The goal of this treatment is to relieve painful cancer sites and slow the rate of tumor growth.”

  Jinshan looked past the doctor, out his window. The tall buildings of Dubai sprang up around them. “I thought I would have more time.”

  The doctor said, “With treatment, you can maximize your time, Mr. Jinshan. That is my recommendation.”

  Jinshan got up and held out his hand. “Thank you, Doctor. I will be in touch.”

  The doctor shook his hand. “How long are you in town? We will need to set up a schedule for treatment if that is how you elect to proceed.”

  Jinshan nodded somberly. “I understand. I will be in town for a few more days. I will contact you.” He walked out of the office and was immediately flanked by two security men and his personal assistant. While his assistant no doubt had many important things to tell him, he had the good sense to remain quiet after this appointment.

  When they finally got into his car, his assistant said, “Lena Chou has requested to speak with you, sir.”

  He was staring out the window. “Did she?” He turned, a glimmer of life in his eye. “When is she available?”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I have made arrangements for a phone call with her now. She told me that it was very important.”

  Jinshan said, “I want to see her in person.”

  His assistant gave him a surprised look. “A face-to-face? In Dubai, sir? Is that wise?”

  Jinshan looked at his assistant coldly.

  “I’ll set it up right now, sir.” He looked at his watch. “She had to be in the north of the city to meet with Mr. Pakvar. We’ll have to go there.” He said something to the driver, and he turned the direction of the vehicle.

  Jinshan turned back to the window, watching the buildings as they traveled by.

  Cheng Jinshan was a very busy man. As a successful businessman and investor, he had influenced the fledgling AIIB to finance the Dubai Financial Exchange. He oversaw the operations of a very secretive Chinese cyberwarfare organization. After some behind-the-scenes arm-twisting, he had been appointed by the Chinese president as head of the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection. This had allowed him to root out the politicians and government appointees that he felt would not serve China well in the coming shift to a wartime nation. Jinshan had also masterminded Lena’s soon to-be-created American Red Cell on a Chinese military base island in the South China Sea. He was a busy man, indeed.

  A busy man’s most precious asset was his time. Something the doctor had informed him he would soon be out of.

  Jinshan’s car parked in the parking garage of one of the less-crowded buildings near the Dubai World Trade Centre.

  Lena stood alone in the dark garage, her arms folded across her chest. Jinshan’s car door opened and his assistant and security men got out, allowing Lena to enter. The soundproof glass between the driver and the rear seat was up.

  “It is good to see you, my dear Lena.”

  She smiled. “And you, sir.”

  “What did you need to speak with me about?”

  “I need your guidance and assistance. Mr. Pakvar and I are now in possession of a man who we believe was working for the CIA. A source, not an agent.”

  “You believe? Why are you not sure?”

  “The information that we have uncovered points to a small operation between Elliot Jackson, the Dubai Station chief, and a Waleed Hajjar, a UAE intelligence officer. As far as I know, they were the only two people who had any knowledge of this source.”

  “What is the significance that would have you bring this to me?”

  “This source placed an NSA-written worm within the Dubai Financial Exchange. It would allow the American government to gain tracking information on all bitcoin and bitcoin-backed currency transactions.”

  Cheng Jinshan frowned. “I see,” he said. “I must say, I am disappointed that they would take this action. It leads me to believe that they may be aware of what our Abu Musa team has been doing. But I am pleased to hear that you have this source in your possession. Tell me, Lena, what guidance do you seek? Please be clear for a simple old man.”

  “I plan to extract the required information from him to ensure that we can proceed as planned with the Abu Musa operation. I will have him provide us any information on the NSA-created program. I will need to get you this information so that your cyberwarfare team can reverse-engineer it. With luck, we can turn this into an advantage.”

  He considered this a moment. Then he said, “Approved. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.” Jinshan could see that she knew something was up, or else he would not have requested to see her in person. But she was patient and disciplined. She remained quiet.

  “Lena, you have been one of my greatest successes over the years.”

  “You are too kind, sir.”

  “I have received notice that an important piece of hardware did not make it from the Iranian patrol craft to the submarine that has been working on the underwater fiber-optic cables.”

  Lena’s eyes narrowed. “How does that affect our schedule?”

  “We may no longer have the ability to physically link in our Abu Musa network to the cables.”

  “That is concerning.”

  “Yes. We will need to look for other opportunities to tap into the Dubai Bitcoin Exchange.”

  “I will explore all options and keep you informed.”

  “Thank you, Lena.” He sighed. “What of the Red Cell? Is everything still on track?”

  “Yes, sir. Operations commence within the month.”

  “Good.”

  “Is everything alright, sir?”

  He looked at her, a sadness welling up inside of him. “Yes, everything is fine. We just need to ensure that we execute on time.”

  An hour later, Lena sat cross-legged on the folding chair, staring at her prey.

  She loved watching their eyes as they began to figure out that they had no hope. She could never tell anyone this, of course. Others wouldn’t understand the source of her pleasure, although she was sure that she wasn’t alone. Pakvar here, for instance, killed for pleasure. She was sure of it. But the crowds that she normally ran with were more…proper. Thus, she had to keep these moments of inner delight to herself.

  The two men Pakvar had brought with him were doing fine without her help, so she could sit. Their prisoner was suspended naked in midair by a rope tied to the rafters of the half-finished building. His wrists bound, his body dipped into the empty fifty-five-gallon polyethylene drum. His mouth was taped shut.

  They all wore protective clothing and safety glasses and had access to gas masks.

  With all of the construction in Dubai, it was easy to find a location. There was one man in the hallway, monitoring the elevators and stairways. But this high up, visitors wouldn’t be a problem. They had shut off the security cameras just prior to arrival. This floor of the building was unfinished. The floor-to-ceili
ng windows that would make up the exterior of the skyscraper were absent. It gave the impression of being up in the clouds. While their floor was expansive, it fell off into the air like an infinite pool, dozens of stories up. The wind would help with the ventilation.

  Pakvar’s men handed out gas masks. They even placed one on their prisoner, removing the tape over his mouth.

  Lena stood, looking at the man. She put one finger over her lips to indicate that he was to remain quiet.

  Pakvar’s men had four hot plates set up. They were using industrial-sized cooking pots—unpressurized. This meant that they would only be able to get the lye to just above boiling. That was okay, but the process would take longer. The bottles had large red-and-yellow warning markings on them. The men poured the liquid into the large pots and heated it until just above boiling.

  Lena spoke to the prisoner. “I want you to answer some questions. If you do this, you will live. If you do not answer my questions, or if I think you are lying to us, I will begin pouring the lye into this drum. It will be very unpleasant.” Pakvar had put his phone down. He stood behind her, arms crossed.

  The naked prisoner nodded.

  “Do you work with the Americans?”

  No movement.

  She put a glove on, walked over to one of the pots of boiling liquid, and carefully carried it over to the fifty-five-gallon drum. Pakvar took the other side and the poured the liquid into the drum. It sloshed around the bottom and began to coat his feet.

  The man screamed inside his mask.

  Lena said, “This is a highly basic liquid. Do you know what that means? If you understand chemistry, you will know that a very strong base can dissolve your flesh.”

  The prisoner’s eyes were streaming with tears. Through the mask he said, “Please let me go.”

  Lena tilted her head, smiling under her mask. “The process is much more effective if you can heat the lye to at least three hundred degrees Fahrenheit. We are heating up gallons of it. After all, we don’t want this to take all day.”

  She held her hand out to the boiling vats. The Iranian men stood staring back at them, their eyes impassive. Pakvar looked at his watch.