Operation Southern Cross - 02

by Jack Shane

  Weir jumped back into his seat, praying that things had quieted down in Venezuela while they were offline. These hopes were quickly dashed, though. If anything, the situation had gotten much worse in the intervening thirty minutes.

  It was strange, because as soon as the XDF screen came back on, it broke itself into four separate live segments, programs within programs, a response to previously entered commands. And what these four broadcasts showed was even more astounding than the devastation at Legos Field.

  Two bridges, deep in the rain forest—one at Merida, another at Jillo—had been blown apart. A communications facility near Acoas flattened. A forest of cell-phone towers near Barqui mowed down, their remains smoking heavily.

  The time counter in the upper left-hand corner of the XDF screen said these actions had all happened within twenty minutes of the assault on Legos Field. When the NSA techs replayed the four separate satellite tapes, gray-black helicopters could clearly be seen in all of them, flitting back and forth over these new targets, firing rockets and shooting machine guns and cannons.

  Just as Weir was processing all of this, the big screen blinked out and the four images disappeared. The surveillance center erupted in obscenities once more.

  The Galaxy Net had shut down again.

  But Weir had seen enough by that time. The bombing of Legos Field had been strange. But to continue the attacks by hitting these additional targets, all of which were in the same general area, was mind-blowing.

  He shook his head. He was in shock. Sent in to do a surveillance job quietly, XBat was out of control…

  There was no other explanation.

  That’s when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find one of the black-beret Air Force Special Ops guards who provided security for this place.

  “Are you Weir?” he asked.

  “Who wants to know?” the agent replied.

  The guard put his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Your boss,” he said. “He wants to see you—now.”

  THERE WAS A CIA BLACK OPS FIELD STATION AT HURLBERT Field.

  It was located on the edge of the rambling base in the basement of an aircraft repair building, a structure that was damaged during a hurricane years before. It was never fully repaired—on purpose—to make it seem even more innocuous.

  Everybody in the CIA’s black ops department knew about it, though. To them it was simply Hangar 22.

  Weir left the SOC bunker and made a five-minute dash in the hot Florida sun to the hangar. He went through the unguarded side entrance and took the stairs down to the sub-basement. A large steel door faced him. Punching in the day’s code, he opened it easily.

  He was greeted by a long, dimly lit hallway. At the end of it was bright red door. Behind it was the office of the field supervisor for Hangar 22. This man was currently Weir’s boss.

  His name was Nelson Bunch. Late sixties, bow tie. Bald and brilliant, he was a Harvard man, just like Weir. Hidden away in the storm-damaged building, he had the job of keeping an eye on all joint CIA-SOC efforts worldwide, no easy task.

  Bunch was known throughout the Agency as being totally unflappable. But when Weir walked into his tiny office, he found the senior officer with his head in his hands, looking to rip out whatever hair he had left.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Weir asked him.

  Bunch hardly moved. He motioned for Weir to come in and close the door. On the desk in front of him, fresh off his computer’s printer, was a stack of still images showing the destruction at Legos Field.

  “As if we didn’t have enough problems already,” Bunch moaned. “Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on down in Venezuela?”

  Weir slumped into the nearest chair. He’d hoped to avoid this meeting for as long as possible, or at least until he could contact XBat. But the Galaxy Net had stations all over Washington and especially inside CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia. Someone higher up had obviously rushed the latest satellite information on Venezuela to Bunch—and Bunch was clearly not happy about it.

  Having no alternative, Weir recounted what he’d seen during the actual live broadcast of the Legos Field bombing. He also told Bunch about the subsequent strikes on the four other targets, theorizing the reason the copter unit took the gas at Legos was to carry out these further attacks, and maybe more.

  Bunch finally lifted his head from his hands. “And these XBat people,” he asked Weir. “Where are they right now?”

  “I don’t know,” Weir replied. “As you’re aware, their ‘thing’ is to go into the target country and hide—and not let anyone know where they are, exactly. Not even us. They’re supposed to melt right into the background.”

  “Can you contact them?”

  Weir shrugged. “I’ve been trying to, but because of the Galaxy Net situation, my S2S phone doesn’t work, and we have no back-up means of communication. Those were the security parameters of the mission—all communications had to be done on the Galaxy Net, even though it was getting goofy at the time.”

  “And obviously, XBat hasn’t called you?” Bunch said.

  Weir shook his head again. “These guys are a total immersion unit, just like SEALs or Force Recon or the Rangers, except they have helicopters. Again, for security reasons, they’re trained not to call us, unless something major has happened. But there’s also a chance they can’t get through to us, just like we can’t get through to them.”

  Bunch’s already pasty face turned another shade of pale.

  “Well, what the hell are they doing down there?” he asked harshly. “You know we also have reports they might have attacked a Venezuelan navy ship in international waters too? They knew the global situation going in, didn’t they? They knew they were supposed to lay low. Now, they must have lost their minds—it’s the only explanation I can come up with. I mean, God damn—are these guys going to start bombing the oil refineries down there next?”

  The question stunned Weir. Such an action could cause a worldwide economic panic. But XBat was suddenly so far off the reservation, he didn’t know what they were capable of.

  He told Bunch bluntly: “Their methods are a bit unorthodox. But as far as what’s in their minds right now, I have no idea. And as of this moment, because of this Galaxy Net thing, there is absolutely no way I can find out.”

  Bunch put his head back into his hands. “This Galaxy Net thing was just a nuisance before,” he said. “But now it’s becoming dangerous—not just here, but with all our stuff around the world.”

  “Does anyone know what the hell is causing it?” Weir asked him. “I mean the thing cost billions—and it’s practically brand new.”

  Bunch rubbed his tired eyes. Like Weir, he hadn’t slept in days.

  “Well, yes, actually they do know what’s wrong with it,” he surprised Weir by saying. “They just found out, in fact. Someone is shooting a laser beam at the Galaxy Net satellites. They’re picking off key orbiters, and whenever they do, it crashes the whole system.”

  Weir laughed. He thought Bunch was joking. “You’re kidding, right?”

  But Bunch shook his head. “Sound too much like a James Bond movie?”

  “Yes,” Weir replied. “A bad one.”

  “Well, bad script or not,” Bunch said, “that’s what’s happening. No one knows where the laser beam is coming from. No one knows who’s behind it. But the fact is, with all the crap going down in the Middle East, the Persian Gulf, Afghanistan, North Korea, whoever is pulling our chains on this one is really doing a good job.”

  “Do you suspect the Venezuelans?” Weir asked him urgently. “Using technology they imported from their friends in Asia or Europe?”

  Bunch shook his head. “We know it’s not them,” he said. “Or at least they’re not doing it anywhere near Venezuela. The big brains at NSA believe the laser is being shot at the satellites as they are coming out of their polar orbits, and the effects don’t happen right away. But for reasons beyond me, they don’t know which end of the E
arth they’re talking about. North Pole, South Pole—take your pick.”

  Up to this time, Weir thought the trouble with the Galaxy Net was no more than a glitch in the software or something. But a mystery laser beam, being operated by people unknown, from a location unknown?

  “So until we figure this out,” Bunch went on, “these fuckups are going to keep happening and will probably get worse. I don’t have to tell you what disasters might result if we have to shut down the entire system, but that’s a possibility. We’re totally dependent on this thing, but suffice it to say, no satellite video feeds means we’re essentially blind. And no S2S phones means we’re deaf and dumb too.”

  Bunch began rubbing his eyes very hard. “And what all that means is, you’ve got to get creative damn quick, my friend,” he told Weir sternly. “You’ve got to find a way to get a coherent message to XBat somehow and tell them to knock it off and get the hell out of there. I don’t care what their reasons are. Right now, I’m putting them down as trigger-happy speed freaks who can expect a court martial when they get back. Now, I don’t have to reiterate all the bullshit that’s going on around the world. But I’ve been talking with our Venezuela desk up at Langley—and they’re having kittens up there over this. If you don’t get through to these copter jocks soon, these analysts say, with the situation inside that shitty little country right now, there’s no telling what those nutty Venezuelans will do…”

  Bunch let his words trail off. Weir felt a chill go down his back. It seemed like the dark little room was beginning to spin.

  “Like, what?” Weir asked him. “What’s the worst case scenario?”

  Bunch thought a moment, then replied: “How many political-psychology classes did you take at Harvard?”

  Weir shrugged. “All of them, why?”

  “Do you recall a lecture titled ‘Stumbling Toward Conflict’?”

  He shrugged again. “Maybe not.”

  “It has to do with some of the stupid reasons nations go to war,” Bunch explained. “And that’s where these analysts up at Langley are coming from. Beyond the usual stuff like direct attack, undermining economic interests, taking another’s territory by force, it’s not uncommon for some countries to start preparing for a war they have no intention of ever going through with. They usually do this for internal reasons, or to satiate their homegrown defense industries. But what is strange is that the more tenuous the motivation to go to war seems to be, the more irresistible the urge to not just build and build and build for a conflict, but to actually accelerate the process, usually beyond all control. Before they know it, they’re riding high, with all these new weapons and feeling like their balls are made of gold, and just looking for trouble. But then, when the first real crisis comes up, no one knows what the hell to do. They’ve never been down this road before. The leadership usually faints, radical factions fill the vacuum, and soon enough, the lunatics are running the asylum. After that, it takes very little to push the whole thing over the edge. One little spark, and the country winds up going to war even though it’s the last thing they wanted to do. They’ve stumbled into it…

  “I just hope your helicopter friends haven’t handed them that spark—because if they have…”

  Bunch’s words were suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door. Weir nearly went through the ceiling, it startled him so much. A young Air Force officer stepped in and handed a yellow slip of paper to Bunch. “This just came for you, sir—by secure fax from Washington. It’s an intercept from the State Department diplomatic room.”

  Bunch read the message—and nearly broke up laughing.

  “Are you sure this thing is on the level?” he asked the officer.

  The officer nodded. “It all checks out,” he said. “The Caracas time stamp is legit. The State Department considers the contents authentic.”

  “But it says it’s from the lowest possible diplomatic channel in Venezuela,” Bunch told him.

  The officer just shrugged. “Washington seems to know that, sir,” he said. “But they’re convinced it’s real.”

  Bunch saluted the man away. All this time, Weir knew this couldn’t be good. Yellow paper usually meant trouble in the world of black ops.

  Bunch’s pale face had now turned dark. “I hope you were taking notes just now, Mr. Weir,” he said. “On how countries can stumble toward conflict? Because thanks to your friends in XBat, we’ve just been handed a textbook example of it, direct from the presidential palace in Caracas.”

  He handed the yellow slip of paper to Weir.

  The message contained just one sentence: “Because of actions taken against it earlier this day, Venezuela hereby declares war on the United States.”

  CHAPTER 11

  MOLLY OWENS WAS TEN YEARS OLD. SHE WAS THE daughter of Henry Owens III, a U.S. diplomat living with his family in Caracas. After Venezuela recalled its ambassador to the United States a few months earlier, prompting Washington to do the same, Owens became the highest ranking U.S. diplomat inside the volatile South American country. It was an unexpected job he did not relish.

  He was attached to an AFTRA agricultural commission, and because it was still being funded, he was still in the country. He knew very little about the day-to-day politics in Caracas. He had no friends inside the current Venezuelan administration, no contacts within the Venezuelan military. Nevertheless, he was handed this top diplomat position by default, and for the honor, the Venezuelan secret police had been tailing him 24/7 for the past month. There was a good chance his home was bugged, and he was sure his land line, cell phone and computer were being tapped. He rarely used any of them.

  That’s how his young daughter became the most unlikely player in the growing South American crisis.

  Owens and his family lived in one of the many towering apartment buildings in downtown Caracas—just a few blocks away from the late Colonel Grazi’s penthouse of iniquity. Molly used to go to the American school nearby, but with the rising tensions, her parents decided to start home schooling her themselves. Owens worked from home; his wife, a reporter for a travel magazine, maintained an office one floor down from their apartment. These days, they rarely left their building. They had all their bags packed, and Owens was praying that any minute, he’d get the call and they could all go home.

  It was now nine in the morning and having consumed her usual bowl of Cocoa Puffs, Molly was in her room, at her computer, beginning her home lessons. She’d been allowed to have one e-mail friend while abroad, a classmate from when the family lived in Washington, D.C. Molly exchanged dozens of e-mails with this friend every day. But except for these messages, and the occasional spam, nothing of any consequence ever found its way to Molly’s e-mail in-box.

  Until today.

  The strange e-mail announced itself by a pop-up window Molly had never seen before. Within it was the title: “Important message for Molly.” Although she had been told by her parents not to open any mail unless she recognized the sender, Molly opened it anyway.

  The e-mail contained only one line: “Molly—bring your father to the computer immediately.”

  It was signed, “The President of the United States.”

  Molly knew what her father did for a living. She also knew that Venezuela was not being friendly to the United States these days. Though she might get in trouble for opening an e-mail she shouldn’t have, she decided to tell her father about the strange message.

  Five minutes later, Owens himself was sitting in his daughter’s tiny chair, typing away on her pink, Barbie-doll-decorated computer. In a flash message, the person on the other end identified himself as Gary Weir. He sent Owens the U.S. diplomatic services’ codes for the day to prove his credibility. Then he explained that just as Owens suspected, the Venezuelan secret police probably had Owens’ phones and computer tapped—and his quarters bugged as well. Molly’s computer was the only place left for them to converse safely.

  Weir instructed Owens to go to an obscure chat room frequented by Brazilian rubber
-fetish aficionados. It was here, after locking themselves in a private room, that the two men were able to have a confidential conversation.

  Weir identified himself as a CIA agent, and as succinctly as possible, typed out the current situation to Owens, starting with the Galaxy Net problems, the strange movements of ships carrying unknown cargo into Venezuela and the Bear bomber theory.

  Next, Weir sent a short history of who and what XBat was, explaining that the airborne unit’s specialty was stealing into an unsuspecting country and virtually disappearing overnight. He revealed that XBat had been sent into Venezuela not forty-eight hours before to quietly check out the situations he’d mentioned above.

  Then, picking his words carefully, Weir told Owens that XBat had been anything but quiet. He recounted the recent destruction of Legos air base, the Venezuelan frigate and the four other targets. He was up front with the diplomat: The CIA had no idea why XBat was doing these things, no theories on why they were acting this way, especially after being ordered to keep a low profile. Weir added that sometimes Special Ops groups got a little too hopped up in their efforts to stay awake, but as far as XBat activities were concerned, it was a total mystery right now. Their elite quality to operate independently, under the hostile nation’s nose, was admirable. But at the moment, it was creating an extremely dangerous situation, including a message from Caracas, through very low diplomatic channels, that claimed Venezuela had already declared war on the United States. Weir said that everyone from the president on down was hoping this was just a rant, something fired off in anger after these unexplained XBat attacks. But the bottom line was, Special Operations Command had to talk to XBat immediately.

  It’s critically important that we contact these people, Weir typed to Owens.

  Owens replied: How can I help? He thought the CIA wanted him to carry a message to someone under cover in the Venezuelan government, a simple courier mission, something he’d done in the past.