“Notice anything strange?” asked McCardle.
He did. The magnetometer plots were nearly identical, yet the photographs clearly indicated displacement; she had cargo aboard. Gooey looked up to find the two men studying him closely. “How discerning is this magnetometer of yours?”
“It’s actually pretty good. The freighter’s empty displacement—what’s it say?” Scianni glanced at the ‘empty cargo’ magnetometer plot in front of Gooey. “The magnetometer specs out better than a quarter per cent accuracy, so at sixty-five hundred tons...call it plus or minus eight tons.”
Gooey absently squeezed the soft and flattened bridge of his nose. “Must be a mistake. Look at the photo—this tub’s laden down. Surely you know to measure the displaced difference, and estimate—”
“Judging by her waterline now, we figure she’s hauling maybe one-forty to one-sixty tons.” Scianni shook his head. “Your source said missile components intermixed with petroleum pipeline supplies? Whatever’s weighing her down, ferrous it ain’t.”
Gooey’s source had provided him with two grainy photographs taken by the stevedore dockside in Namp’o, revealing small but unmistakable slivers of an engine nozzle cluster. The data had cost the Australian taxpayers a personal fortune, at least in North Korean terms. “My sources say the manifest lists pipeline supplies, but that they only loaded a single container of it in the event of boarding inspection.”
“Well, oil pipes and No Dong missiles are made of steel. If either were on that freighter in any quantity we’d have squared with it. Sorry, Gooey. We even did a second Aries fly-over. Don’t see where this could’ve gone wrong.”
The captain stared sympathetically at his Australian guest.
Scianni asked, “How many actual missile crates were there supposed to be?”
“Six.”
“So, sixty tons maybe, two-thirds of that propellant, assuming propellant’s aboard...twenty ferrous tons? Six No Dong missile casings, rocket engines and shipping containers would definitely square with the magnetometer measurements. We can only account for maybe a little over half that.”
Gooey cradled his face in his hands. Besides needing a shave he had a splitting headache. More than anything he just needed to sleep. Goddamn...no sense showing the Yanks the Namp’o photos again. Was the information phony, after all? “What about communications intercepts?”
“A few,” Captain McCardle acknowledged. “She is heading to Bandar e Abbas.”
“What about that Chinese sub hanging around? Can’t be bananas on that freighter they were interested in.”
“You know, Gooey, you may have something there,” Scianni said. “Bananas are rich in iron, they’re heavy, and the EP-3 wouldn’t measure them.”
Gooey ignored the intelligence officer’s ill-timed humor. On the other hand, maybe...
Gooey slipped the pen from Scianni’s shirt pocket, and scribbled out some numbers—he banged his fist on the table. “Damn, Scianni, you’re not as bleed’n dumb as you think! There’s missiles on that tub, all right—aluminum missiles.” Gooey spun the paper around to reveal his calculation.
The grin fell away from Scianni’s face, along with most of the color.
* * *
“SO, THEN, I THINK everyone would agree that any possibility their missiles are constructed of aluminum poses a serious threat,” McBurney emphasized in highlighting an Australian intelligence officer’s analysis, now the basis of a full re-evaluation of Iran’s ability to strike from afar.
A visibly tense President of the United States and his National Security Adviser acknowledged little as they studied satellite photographs of the Iranian port. These clearly depicted five long, narrow crates dockside to the berth of a North Korean freighter. A sixth was suspended in the air as it was being unloaded by a crane.
Biding their time in the Situation Room were the Chairperson of the Joint Chiefs and Secretary of Defense, whose passing interest in the present exchange reflected the President’s grudging acknowledgement of what had to be done.
“This appears to put a level of technical sophistication into Iranian hands that we hadn’t expected for years,” McBurney continued, “certainly not until well after our deployment of missile defense.”
Herman threw him a look and continued to peruse the photos.
“Overcoming the engineering and manufacturing obstacles of a light-weight aluminum launch vehicle is the generally accepted threshold to a viable intercontinental delivery capability,” CIA Director Burns more explicitly explained. “Their present Shahab can lob a warhead into Istanbul. If this is indeed a Taepo Dong-3, in Tehran’s hands it puts all of Western Europe and portions of the continental United States into play. It’s bad enough news that North Korea possesses it.”
“Nobody knows what the new Taepo Dong really is,” the President’s national security advisor correctly reminded them.
“Look at it this way. Their fizzler a few years back splashed down several hundred miles northeast of Hawaii. How much are you willing to bet against them now?”
Discovery of the North Korean dictator’s latest gambit had allowed Tom Herman to pretty much dictate CIA priorities for the past twenty-four hours. Exhausted, running on adrenaline, McBurney continued with the body of his briefing. “Iran’s original Shahab was reverse engineered from the No Dong, by the way. We’ve estimated the base configuration, two-stage Taepo Dong-2 payload in the 1.5 ton class, large enough for an early generation nuke reentry vehicle. The silo-launched liquid-propellant missile has a four-engine cluster first stage, the second a single rocket motor—these nozzles are what you see in photographs provided by Australian Secret Intelligence. A three-stage configuration could conceivably deliver a similar payload up to 15,000 kilometers and put all of North America in jeopardy. We were able to corroborate the Australian data, by the way. A re-examination of our overhead imagery shows shipping containers enroute by rail—”
“Why re-examination?” Herman lifted his eyes from a photograph.
“What?”
“You said re-examination, and so I’m wondering why you chose to stick the prefix ‘re’ onto the word ‘examination’ ?”
McBurney realized he should expect no less from Herman. “I don’t—”
“Tom, you rightly brought up earlier the lack of a telltale static engine test,” Director Burns intervened with a change of subject. “These countries have a knack for clustering existing engines that have already been adequately tested. That is, adequately enough to demonstrate for us that they might actually work when called upon.”
While Herman pondered the Director’s point, McBurney explained other incriminating evidence, including an alert by one informant in June of 2004. Pyongyang had apparently purchased ingots of an aerospace-grade aluminum alloy from a Russian supplier. Among its other applications, the alloy in question could be used to produce long-range missiles. “We were unable to confirm that it actually shipped,” McBurney said, “and neither could—”
The President’s fist slamming on the table brought silence to the Situation Room. He leveled his finger. “We bully and try to dominate the world with missile defense, other countries proceed to ignore international law. What the hell do we expect?”
McBurney surveyed the other faces around the table. He had been part of presidential briefings to discuss Korea selling missiles way back during the first Clinton administration.
“Mr. McBurney, aren’t you a member of the JCTF?” President Denis asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t we suspect Iran is behind our domestic terrorist attacks?”
McBurney glanced at the DCI. “We don’t have actual proof—”
“Hence my choice of the word ‘suspect.’ ”
“It’s true that some people believe Iran is complicit. Even so, with the possible exception of the pipeline attack, we’ve not been able to establish an Iranian link.”
Denis sighed.
Director Burns eyed the President. “We don’
t know how many horses have already left the barn with this. That goes for nuclear warheads, as well.”
Denis only frowned.
Nobody was in the mood to rehash the miserable dearth of clarity on the Pakistani above ground test two years earlier in the Indian Ocean. Director Burns assured the President that as DCI, he was personally and directly wired into the effort to penetrate the Iranian nuclear program.
“A multitude of countries frequent the Gulf of Oman,” Herman observed. “Isn’t this a matter for the U.N. Security Council?”
The question drew a chuckle from Defense Secretary Erskine Daley. “That would certainly solve the question of our sending the additional carrier group. We can choose to do nothing without the help of the Security Council.”
“Iran will insist that it’s only oil pipeline supplies, to which some people will claim we’re bullies throwing our weight around.” Director Burns blinked when he realized he’d mocked the President’s words. “There is a precedent for dealing with such a dilemma.”
The President eyed his CIA director. “That was 1962 and eighty miles off our coastline. Kennedy had the entire hemisphere on his side.”
“We can convince Arab countries that it’s not exactly in their interest to have the United States target ICBM’s on their region, which we’ll be compelled to do if Iran is given free reign.
“Any chance we could talk Australia into a role?” Herman suggested. “They found the missiles. Maybe let them take the lead.”
For the second time that morning, the Situation Room was silent.
Chairperson of the Joint Chiefs Marcia Fuller cleared her throat. She reiterated her view that the Strait of Hormuz and Gulf of Oman represent a choke point readily controlled by a single carrier group.
President Denis threw up his hand. “I want something to be perfectly clear: no mines. They’re evil enough on land, they’re worse bobbing around in the ocean. Civilized nations don’t go around randomly sinking each other’s ships.”
“Yes, very good, sir—no mines. I would recommend that we plan to deploy the Kitty Hawk carrier group to join Stennis already in the Gulf.” She indicated the need to include logistics support out of Diego Garcia.
“Where is Kitty Hawk?” Denis asked.
“Presently with the Seventh Fleet, Yokosuka.”
“I assume we will be equipped to deal with any aggressive sort of response by the Iranians?”
“Correct, sir.”
Thomas Herman caught the President’s eye and shook his head.
Denis ignored the gesture and said to his secretary of state, “Walter, you handle the UN Ambassador and secretary general on this. I want an open line between—wait, I’ll inform the British and Israeli prime ministers on what to expect.”
Secretary of State Laynas said, “The consul general is going to say that Iran may well interpret this as tantamount to an act of war.”
Denis agreed. “Remember, they are the ones being caught with their pants down. All I intend to do is expose them to the world.”
66
HIS DECISION HAD CERTAINLY been worth the investment of another few hours. Stacked on the table beside Deng’s elbow were editions of The Asian Wall Street Journal, business sections of The New York Times and The Cleveland Plain Dealer, along with Air Transport and several other aerospace trade publications. Deng finished chronicling the previous thirty-six months with the dog-eared magazine open before him, a 6 April issue of Aviation Week & Space Technology. He was tempted to tear out the page but there was really no need; he already had everything he needed to know. To compile all of the articles, or to search for yet another, would only serve to procrastinate. The ironclad wisdom he yearned for was not to be found in newsprint, or anywhere else.
Rubbing his eyes, Deng looked up from the wooden refectory table. A dozen rows of table lamps illuminated the somber faces of a hundred bureaucrats poring over Western periodicals. Barred from the masses, there were no materials removed from this library; no hushed conversation competed with the occasional hum of a copy machine. So low was regard for the security and information ministries to competently address their needs that every ministry took part in the task, duplicating efforts of the government organs whose job it was to electronically sift through open sources for relevant information. Deng himself had spent untold hours in the dreary repository of every conceivable newspaper, magazine, and trade journal. From within this room he had monitored the efforts of his contemporaries, enterprising men who freely and foolishly publicized the state of their latest technology, if not quite explicitly then enough so that a determined mind found much to deduce.
Deng gazed at the bored expressions and wondered what sort of backward system denied individuals free and open use of the Internet, compelling them instead to manually search through paper which bore the same information. According to his blasphemous son, the free-flow of information that fueled democracy everywhere posed an irreconcilable threat to the Party’s methods—their typical contradiction, Peifu would say, in that the Party encouraged pursuit of technical careers among its people yet discouraged dissemination of information age technologies. Well, perhaps. The funny thing, Deng realized as he thought about it, was that he actually preferred scanning the pages of paper.
Deng closed the aviation journal, and as he studied the glossy cover photograph of a jet engine on static test, his hands began to tremble.
LATER IN THE DAY, Deng ignored the stares as he walked through the corridors of Beijing University. Stopping twice to ask directions, he was finally directed past doors, behind which could be heard a voice lecturing over a cacophony of instruments, to the office of the assistant professor of musical art. Finding the door locked, he gently rapped twice. Students walked slowly past, stares lingering, wondering at the national figure in their midst. He was beginning to think there was no one inside when, balling his fist, he knocked loudly and the door swung open to reveal the flushed face of an attractive young woman. She cast him a fleeting glance before brushing past and disappearing down the hall.
Inside the surprisingly small office, Assistant Professor Deng Peifu sat behind his desk with arms folded. Two other students in the room gathered up their papers and books.
“Sorry to interrupt your studies,” said Deng. He felt awkward and more than a bit old.
“We were just finishing up.” The professor dismissed his students. The senior Deng closed the door behind their exit.
He turned and smiled at his son. “I would have thought you’d want to introduce me.” He glanced around at the Spartan surroundings. Hanging beside the room’s only window was an impressionist watercolor of the Beijing skyline; on the desk was a framed photograph of Peifu smiling among an entourage of student musicians. Beside his desk was a table supported by four stacks of books with a computer terminal and laser printer.
Peifu eyed his father suspiciously. “I have a class in a few minutes. Why are you here?”
“I came by to say hello.” Deng pointed at the computer terminal.
It took a moment for Peifu to register his understanding.
Deng sat down at the desk and began to write a note. “It occurred to me that I have never been to your office.” He slid the note to his frowning son; How would you know if your computer contacts had been compromised?
“You might have called first,” Peifu said while scripting his reply. “We could have scheduled time to take a tour of the campus.” An absence of certain innocuous clues, punctuation marks and repeated words that signal the sending party has been apprehended and is under duress.
“I’ll remember to call ahead next time.” Deng wondered if such rudimentary precautions were an adequate bulwark against Rong Peng’s determined intrusions. Nonetheless, he removed a compact computer disk and slip of paper from inside his coat. “Maybe we could take the opportunity to drop in on a math professor I used to know.” He reached over the desk and handed the items to his son.
Peifu glanced uncertainly at the Internet ad
dress.
“But I’m not certain of the man’s address,” Deng added ponderously.
“I can check for it.” The music professor opened a drawer and placed the items inside.
“Actually, if you don’t mind, I would like to attend to that now.”
“I have a class in just—”
“Go—go to your class,” Deng dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “I have plenty of time. In fact, I have all afternoon.”
Peifu pulled open the drawer and removed the disk.
67
“MR. MCBURNEY,” Special Agent Hildebrandt’s voice greeted with its buoyant familiarity. “I called to thank you for helping clear up a few leads. Turns out you were wrong about the Mounties chasing a lark.”
McBurney held the phone to his ear, mystified. “I really don’t...oh yeah, the diner. You sent someone to the diner.” At the time he had thought that might be the case. Stuart had been on such a tirade that McBurney had all but forgotten his retort about the Canadian authority. “You sure took your time getting back to me. You know, I didn’t intend...I mean, I knew this Stuart was under surveillance.”
“It’s okay, we were able to figure out most of it. We already knew about Stuart’s and Chang’s amateur detective jaunt through Cleveland—very amusing. Although, we are having trouble getting that New York law firm to open up about Paul Devinn’s storage locker.”
“But it sounds like progress.”
“Enough so that we discreetly advised Thanatechnology of our suspicion that sabotage played a role in the downing of their test aircraft. That earned us a plea directly to the Director himself for priority on the investigation.”
“Wonderful.”
“Cuts both ways, actually.”
“So, why was I wrong about the Mounties?”
“That’s actually what I called about. It took a little haggling, but the Canadian authorities visited some of the hunting, fishing, and trapping villages near Lake Manitoba. They turned up a bush pilot who told them the story of an American backpacker who wandered out of the woods soon after Devinn supposedly met his demise. This man had been issued a hiking permit by the province a couple of months ago. The flight with the pilot was pre-arranged.”
Razing Beijing Page 41