FATAL eMPULSE

by Mark Young

  It was the practical application of this God-thing that became the Great Wall of China between Alena and him. She believed God was interested in her day-to-day troubles, that this divine being watched from above to guide and protect her. Gerrit thought this superior being sat up in the heavens, benignly watching people go at it in this messed-up world as they slowly destroyed themselves. Like some grand watchmaker, creating the watch, winding it up, and letting it tick into oblivion.

  Alena saw his troubled look. “What’s wrong?”

  For a moment, he almost told her. Then, pulling back, he decided to leave it alone. Sooner or later, they might have to take a run at this subject. Right now, she seemed to find peace in this belief of hers. It might be better to allow her to continue in her own way of coming to grips with this violent world.

  Gerrit would rather have a gun in his hand. Something concrete he could touch and feel. He could choose when to pull that trigger. There might not be inner peace about the way he chose to face life, but at least he felt in control over what could be controlled. The rest—he’d leave to fate.

  He just shrugged. “Nothing. Just trying to figure where we go from here.”

  Chapter 11

  February 23

  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

  Washington, D.C.—a city of awesome power and backstabbing compromises—had become a shell of what the founding fathers hoped might happen here. Jack Thompson still dreamed the Constitution might survive. He always came to this city with a round-trip ticket in hand. The moment he arrived, he began making plans to leave.

  Today would be no different.

  A car and driver waited for Jack when he disembarked from the Boeing C-17 and made his way across the tarmac. He glanced across the airfield at Air Force One, the most famous part of the USAF’s 89th Airlift Wing, sitting under guard. The president must be in town.

  As he approached the unmarked military car, the young driver saluted. Jack gave him a friendly nod as the driver started to open the rear door. “Don’t need to salute, son. I’m in civvies.”

  Jack waved the door closed. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride shotgun with you. Hate riding in the backseat.”

  The young man seemed to hesitate for a second and then smiled. “Yes, sir.” After taking care of Jack’s luggage, the driver jumped behind the steering wheel and began the drive south. Crossing the George Mason Memorial Bridge, Jack looked upriver along the Potomac and wondered what kind of trouble lay ahead. Trying to keep his overt military responsibilities separate from his cover operations raised all kinds of problems, like the one he was about to face.

  Gerrit O’Rourke and that group existed in the gray, nebulous world of covert ops—where right and wrong could be a matter of perspective—without government sanction. To some, that might mean they could be labeled criminals or terrorists. But not to Jack or Beck Malloy. Gerrit, Alena, Willy, and Joe were thrust into a situation beyond their control and forced to exist in a world in which their very actions—computer hacking, even the use of force—was a matter of survival.

  Survival for themselves and for their country.

  If the other side snagged them, God forbid, and they survived, they could easily wind up in federal prison or worst—executed for treason.

  “Sir, we are almost there.” The driver nodded at the security gate ahead. Heavily armed guards with automatic weapons, bomb-sniffing dogs, and reflective mirrors to examine the undercarriage of vehicles did more to advertise that this was the CIA’s headquarters than any sign posted along the roadway.

  He pulled out his identification, and he and the driver submitted to a security search before they were allowed to drive forward. After they parked, Jack climbed out of the vehicle, telling the driver to stay with the car. He walked toward the main entrance of the CIA’s newest building. Even before he reached the main lobby, he saw a woman walking briskly in his direction.

  Shakeela Vaziri. This woman was so pretty she could start a riot in a church.

  “Colonel Thompson. We meet again.”

  “SECNAV didn’t give me a choice.” Jack ignored the hand she held out.

  “I’m sorry. This is not how I wanted to get the message to you. Once you’re briefed, I’m sure you’ll see why my boss went through our ADMA, Associate Director of Military Affairs, to reach the SECNAV…and you. We want to make sure there are no leaks, and most important, no misunderstandings. We’ll talk more about this in just a few minutes.”

  Shakeela stood nearby as Jack passed through security and received a temporary identification card. Once cleared, she guided him to an elevator that took him belowground. The glass entryway, seen from the outside, was actually the fourth floor of the building. Most of the building lay buried in concrete. As they descended, Shakeela stifled a yawn and rubbed her temple.

  “Been burning the late-night oil?” Jack needed to try to build rapport with her if he was going to get any information. No sense making enemies from the get-go. “You look tired.”

  Shakeela gave a halfhearted smile. “Just jet lag catching up, I guess.”

  “Europe? Middle East?”

  She just shook her head. “Let’s just say, not in the United States.”

  The elevator door rolled open, and he followed her down a brightly-lit hallway until they reached what appeared to be a conference room with only one door. No windows.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Colonel, while I round up those who need to be here.”

  “Wait a minute, Ms. Vaziri. How many people are coming to this party? I sent out a flag on one person—in what I considered a covert operation—and I want to know who I’m dealing with before we have a major sit-down with a bunch of strangers.”

  “Our cooperation comes with conditions, sir—”

  “Then take your conditions and shove ‘em. People are out there putting their lives on the line—”

  “Like Gerrit O’Rourke?”

  He glared at her, taken aback that she already knew something about his operation. “How’d you come up with that name?”

  “You know Gerrit and I go way back. Ever since that operation you loaned him for in Afghanistan.”

  “I know that you and he went out of country on that one. It has nothing to do with our conflict in Afghanistan. You lied to me then. Are you going to lie to me now?” He must have hit a nerve. Her eyes flared and her jaw muscles tightened.

  “I never lied to you, Colonel. It was a need-to-know—and you didn’t.”

  “Speaking of which, what happened between you and Gerrit? He came back mighty angry.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I never meant to hurt him. I…can’t talk about it.”

  “Can’t or won’t? You spooks have a convenient way of hiding what you don’t want to share. Did national security have anything to do with what happened? Or was it personal?”

  “Frankly, that’s none of your business, sir. Let’s focus on what we’re facing right now.”

  “Yes, shall we? Why did you haul my tired bones all the way out here to talk about what could have been covered over an encrypted phone line?”

  “Let me get my boss here, and we’ll tell you.” With that, she turned and left him in the room.

  So the CIA already knew about Gerrit. What else did they know? And why were they so interested in Stuart Martin? These unanswered questions made him nervous. How could he and Malloy protect Gerrit and the others if more strangers knew about the operation?

  Shakeela closed the conference door and moved down the hallway. She did not reveal to the colonel that this meeting put her own life in danger, pulling her from an undercover assignment overseas to meet with him at Langley. A total violation of CIA policy, which painted a red bull’s-eye on both their backs. Deep undercover meant just that. She had spent years setting up an operation centered in Paris that made use of the Iranian contacts currently living in France.

  She never realized how those photos she took of Atash Hassan meeting with this unknown man, Stuart Martin, woul
d set off so many bells. As soon as she had received notification as to the identity of Stuart, she started getting encrypted messages—first, from her station chief, and later from a manager at headquarters—to return to Langley.

  Once she got to a secure line, her chief advised the name might have something to do with a man known as Gerrit O’Rourke, a subject the Agency knew she had contact with years ago. Suddenly, it was as if she—and indirectly, Gerrit—became subjects of interest to the CIA and not Stuart Martin. Whose toes had she stepped on? Maybe this Martin guy was affiliated with the Agency and part of another operation unknown to her. Her target was Hassan and anything pertaining to that terrorist. She had a legitimate reason to find out all she could about any of Hassan’s associates.

  Somehow, her need to know might not be enough to keep her rear end out of trouble. And her prior contact with Gerrit only complicated matters. Really complicated matters—professionally and personally.

  More must be going on than she knew.

  Devon McAllister reached the outskirts of Miami when his cell phone pinged. Incoming text message. He snatched the phone and scrolled through the message.

  Pay dirt! A location for Gerrit and his sidekick at a hotel in Miami. One of his crew knew a local businessman who provided security cameras for all the car-rental agencies around the airport. And for those the businessman did not provide, he found a way to access his competitor’s business network. For a hefty fee, Devon’s contact paid the guy to search all rentals for a specified period of time prior to the estimated arrival of Gerrit and the woman.

  The long shot paid off. The contact scored a rental car, replete with an activated GPS locator, and the alias Gerrit used to rent the car. The rental car’s path was traced from where they parked near Gloria’s hotel to another hotel about a mile away.

  Stupid idiot staying so close to their target location. That mistake was about to cost them dearly. Devon texted back to have the others set up a perimeter with an eyeball on the target’s car. He tapped in: Don’t scare them off. Wait until I get there to move in. He hit the Send button before dialing a preset number. Stuart Martin answered.

  “Sir. We’ve located them and my men have their hotel surrounded. Do you want us to terminate the targets or snatch and grab?”

  “I don’t want to risk another security breech. What’s the expression down there? Feed ‘em to the sharks.” Stuart clicked off.

  Chapter 12

  February 23

  Honolulu, Hawaii

  A Customs agent fingered Richard Dunsmuir’s passport. Tucked inside his suitcase—secreted in a false compartment even the best X-ray machines could never detect—he had another passport. Through a contact, he would later clear that second alias as having reentered the U.S. from the East Coast. He needed to travel under the radar while visiting the island state of Hawaii.

  Today, he carried credentials of a businessman from Hawaii. One of several documents he got from his contacts in the State Department.

  “Richard Dunsmuir. Welcome back to the U.S., sir. Do you have anything to declare?”

  He shook his head. “Just a suitcase full of dirty laundry and a gift for my little girl. Can’t wait to get home.” He calmly smiled.

  The agent gave Richard his passport and waved him on. “Two months overseas. I’m sure your family will be excited to see you.” He motioned for the next person in line.

  Once outside the terminal, Richard climbed into a cab, directing the driver to the Hilton Hawaiian Village on Waikiki Beach. He rolled down the window and enjoyed the warm afternoon breeze. It seemed only minutes before he saw the palm-shaded Hilton. Beyond the hotel lay the sparkling-blue Pacific Ocean, whitecapped waves dotted with surfers and swimmers.

  He gave the driver a hefty tip to add to the fare before entering the airy hotel lobby. As he waited for service, he glanced across the spacious veranda, enjoying the peaceful comforts of this resort. Another time, he might be more apt to relax in this laid-back setting, but today’s visit to the islands filled him with anxiety. It was critical that he make certain this one individual bought into his plan. If not, all the agreements he made with others would be useless.

  A valet took his bag as Richard completed check-in, and they made their way toward the Ali’l Tower. They rode an elevator to one of the top floors, then entered a deluxe suite overlooking a white ribbon of sandy beach that narrowly separated a blue glistening ocean from palm groves and green lawns.

  He stepped out on the balcony and breathed in the cooling breeze. Below, at the beach’s waterline, a wooden finger of a pier led to a boat launch. Sunbathers lay stretched out, paying homage to the tanning rays of the sun’s golden orb.

  After tipping the valet, Richard walked to the bar to pour himself a drink. He glanced at the time and he had about an hour before his visitor arrived

  When Richard left in the morning, he must remember to wipe this place down of any prints and to make sure to take the garbage with him—including the remnants of the beverage he was enjoying at this very moment. The last thing he needed was for his visitor to get cold feet and call the feds to search this room. Cleaning up after himself had become a part of how he did business, how he always stayed one step ahead of those who wished to destroy him.

  He could always call those with the power to pull information, change data, or simply erase documentation about himself that might be locked away in so-called secure sites in several countries—including the United States. He rarely needed to do that. Fingerprints and DNA made things a little more challenging, but not impossible. A digital sleight of hand had served him well for many years. As technology changed, so did the process by which he and his organization functioned.

  He walked out on the balcony, stretched out on a lounge chair, set his watch alarm, and tried to rest.

  A rapping on the hotel door woke Richard from a light sleep. He glanced at his watch and saw his visitor had arrived early. Good. The man must be anxious.

  Tiredness gripped him like an old acquaintance. International travel and his age had forced him to exist on little sleep. The few minutes of rest barely replenished his batteries. He swung the door open. “Come in, Mr. Henderson. Welcome to the islands.”

  The man—middle aged, with a balding pate already pink from the sun, a bulging midriff, and a Hawaiian shirt bearing a confusion of colors that screamed haole—looked up and down the hallway before entering. He brushed past Richard and glanced around the suite as if he might be expecting others. “Are we alone, Mr. Dunsmuir?”

  “Yes, Scott. Make yourself a drink and get comfortable.” He motioned toward the bar in the kitchen area. “And while you’re at it, refresh mine.” He handed Henderson his glass. “Scotch. Neat.”

  Henderson took the glass and scurried toward the bar. A few minutes later, he returned with the drinks. They sat around a table that overlooked Waikiki Beach.

  Richard cocked his head to one side. “First time to the islands?”

  Henderson shook his head, his face tense. “Can we get down to business? I am a little worried about what you’re asking me to do.”

  Richard toyed with how best to approach this man. Greed and the threat of exposure seemed to be good hands to play. Henderson allowed himself to be vulnerable because he desired opulence, a better life, and recognition at any price. Time to pay for these indiscretions.

  “I am offering two million dollars, Scott. One million to be paid to any account of your choosing when we start. Another million upon completion of your part in this operation.”

  “Sounds risky. I don’t know if that will be enough for what you’re asking me to do.”

  Richard could not believe this scum would try to barter. Scowling, he leaned forward, a twitch in his left eye signaling that he needed to calm down. Time to add pressure. “I believe we are being very generous given your circumstances, Mr. Henderson. Very generous, indeed.”

  Richard folded his hands on the table and considered what he should say next. “Let’s be frank
. You got yourself into a bit of a pickle. I know you are under investigation for releasing classified information. If they can prove this—”

  “That’s a bold-faced lie. I never—”

  Richard held up his hand. “Whoa, slow down, Scott. First, we both know better, don’t we?” He let that statement sink in for a moment.

  Unknown to Scott, military leaders and intelligence officers—when they learned someone had gained access to the plans—began to sweat bullets. Heads might roll if their secret got out. And Scott knew what he had done. Denial had just become second nature.

  Richard acquired the plans of a system that had already been used against the enemy—most noticeably against Syria in 2007. He had targeted this design once he saw its effectiveness. Israeli jets penetrated Syrian airspace without detection and destroyed a facility at Dayr az Zawr believed to be used to develop nuclear weapons. The Israel’s F-15s and F-16s caught the air-defense system, provided by the Russians, with its pants down.

  The Israelis—with Americans looking over their shoulders—zapped the Syrian air defense using two integrated programs. One identified as NCCT—network-centric collaborative targeting—by the military allowed operators to locate targets with minimum manipulation by human hands. Once NCCT found these targets, it handed the locations off to a system dubbed the Suter program. This second system electronically reduced the size of the target and zapped it with electronic impulses to corrupt the enemy’s system. Senior Suter entered that system—bouncing from network to network—until it penetrated the enemy’s communications loop, providing false information and signals that confused the enemy, even creating false targets and threats.

  It was this system that Scott sent to Richard. And Richard, in turn, sold to the Russians.

  Richard continued. “I said if they can prove it, you face substantial time in a federal penitentiary. That is, after the government gets through wringing every bit of information out of you. They might use words like espionage and treason at your trial. They really frown on that sort of thing. Do you understand where I’m going?”