“That was my area of so-called expertise in the Air Force. Stealth technology and the like. Hell, that’s going to be the way of the next war.” Bud took the seat offered by the DDI, who sat down also.
“Next war.” Landau grunted, shaking his head. “Why do we always seem to be able to look forward to those instead of away? Hell, we’re supposed to be benefiting from the greatest thaw in superpower relations in fifty years, and we can still see ourselves at war! Oh...don’t mind me, Bud. I’m just an old fart who’s seen too many last wars, big ones and small ones. Believe me”—he brought a finger down on the desk for emphasis—“men die in any war, and one is too many, at least from what I’ve seen.”
“Yes, sir...” Bud began.
“No, please. I’m old enough without the ‘sir.’ It’s Herb.”
“Certainly,” Bud agreed, though calling the DCI Herb would take some getting used to. “What I mean by ‘next war’ is the probability of small, contained regional conflicts. If we get involved in those conflicts we’re going to need technology that will minimize our risks. The country won’t be ready to accept heavy casualties from any of these small actions. The Gulf War proved that it can be done, and damn decisively. Stealth and other technologies played a big part. I mean, if we can place a conventional and powerful smart weapon on a target from five or six hundred miles away, or hundreds of these weapons, then we can effectively fight the most dangerous part of any action—the beginning—from a safe distance. There are many, many uses for this kind of technology. But then that point is moot when you look at the cutbacks in R&D. That’s the one war the Congress usually wins.”
“You’re a convincing speaker, Bud, and you know the limits of rhetoric. I like that.”
Bud smiled at the DCI’s compliment. “Thanks, Herb.”
“How was the helo ride?” Drummond asked.
“Fine. I’m not used to a decked-out Blackhawk.”
It was Landau’s turn to smile. “Get used to it. This time tomorrow you’ll be official.”
“That’s not definite,” Bud said, knowing that it probably was.
The DDI reached for his wallet. “I’ll lay money on it.”
“Damn right,” Landau said. “Like I told you this morning, do yourself a favor and get up to speed on the idea of it.”
Bud was flattered but didn’t show it. Couldn’t show it He didn’t want to seem cocky. At fifty-two he felt younger than the DDI, who was a babyish forty-three, a result of the new-kid-on-the-block syndrome. He was a newcomer, and he could deal with that. As the DCI said, he was almost certain to be the new NSA, which went against conventional wisdom. That didn’t bother him because it obviously didn’t concern the president, who had requested him to arrive a half hour before the two P.M. NSC meeting. He would then be “official” for that meeting. The position was officially known as Adviser to the President for National Security Affairs, and had fortunately been condensed to the more widely known designation of National Security Adviser—NSA to the ‘in crowd.’ Press were the only ones to use official and full titles.
“Herb tells me you’re from Colorado. Snowmass, wasn’t it?” The skier in Drummond believed he had found another person with whom he could swap downhill stories.
“Born and raised,” Bud proudly affirmed. “I never got back there enough after Colorado Springs.”
“Air Force Academy—do any flying?” Drummond was probing for another of his passions. The DCI watched the two men with little knowledge of their apparent shared interests. He hated snow, and his experience with aircraft was limited to his duties as squadron painter aboard the old Lady Lex back in World War II.
“Four years in F-105s, mostly Wild Weasels.”
“Nam?”
“Yep. Two years of that was enough for my lifetime. I did not, repeat not, enjoy flying suppression for 52s. Down on the deck is definitely not the way to gain a love for the beauty of flight, especially when the guys you’re supposedly covering are forty thousand feet above you.” Bud didn’t go into the link he saw between his early career and Stealth technology. B-2s don’t need Wild Weasels.
“Sorry to interrupt, boys, but are either of you hungry?” The DCI’s illness hadn’t taken away his appetite. “Bud?”
He looked at his watch.
“Don’t mind the time,” the DDI reassured him. “Our mess is good and fast.”
“Sure, then.” Bud was hungry, not having eaten since a late dinner the previous night.
Herb nodded and took the phone. The sandwiches arrived five minutes later with a large pitcher of water and a smaller one of iced tea. Bud took a corned beef on rye, with a smile from the other men who chose the ham and Swiss on wheat. His first bite gave away the reason for their mild amusement.
“The executive cook has a thing for hot mustard,” Drummond shared with a chuckle.
Bud finished his bite and washed it down with a gulp of iced tea. “Obviously.”
The men finished the light meal in ten minutes as the cordial conversation was interrupted by the food and frequent drinks to quench the fire in Bud’s mouth. As the steward removed the tray and dishes, leaving the drinks on a separate tray, the atmosphere echoed the seriousness of the coming conversation. Bud could feel it.
The DDI opened his case and removed a single file. It was not unusual, except for the red-and-green label in the upper right-hand comer, under which was an acronym, MSRD, which Bud had become familiar with during his work on the Stealth program. It stood for Most Secret, Restricted Distribution. The red-and-green markings identified its ‘owner’ as the CIA. Each government agency with sensitive material was issued a color code. The CIA had this one, the Defense Intelligence agency was red and blue, the State Department was yellow and orange, and so on. This was intended mainly to prevent the mixing of files, and each page was also color-coded the same as its folder. Bud knew that the MSRD designation meant that fewer than ten pairs of eyes were authorized to view the material. Actually, he was to become only the fourth living human to have the right to know the contents of the manila folder.
“I don’t need to remind you about security, Bud,” the DCI began, signaling for Drummond to hand the file to the newcomer, “so we’ll just get to it. There are only two copies of this: I have one and Greg the other. They have never left either of our offices except in our own possession, and when they have it’s only been between our offices. When we aren’t in our offices they are kept in our personal safes. We know each other’s combinations, as does the Deputy Director of Operations Mike Healy, but he is not privileged to this information. Bud, the president is not privileged to it.”
Something was up, Bud thought. The president was cleared for everything. Or maybe...
Landau continued, “Now, to my point. First, you better read what’s in the file.”
Bud opened the folder, looking to both men before he began reading. There were only four double-spaced pages, which he finished in less than three minutes. He spent another two minutes reading over the second page.
His eyes came up from the paper, though not to meet the others’. “Did Jeremy know about this?”
The DCI nodded.
“Jesus... This was dated to last December, and this last part just a month ago. Was the president informed?”
“He was, yes, about the last part, but he vetoed any measures that would have compromised the source,” Landau answered. He knew Bud wouldn’t ask about the source. “Jeremy didn’t even want him informed because it would take away presidential deniability. We convinced him to at least inform him of the risk to himself.”
Bud was incensed. “Who the hell authorized this operation?”
“We don’t know,” Drummond replied. “There was no finding or authorization; no hard copy other than the Eyes Only brief that you’re looking at. Somehow it missed the shredder and ended up in a case file. The officer who the file belonged to—he was stationed in Sicily—left the Agency after the inauguration.” He carefully avoided letting on to the office
r’s role in Italy. “There’s no way to tie him to this since it was a stateside report, probably dictated. It ended up in his file...” Drummond shrugged. “...mistake, maybe. A stupid oversight. It’s even conceivable that it was intentionally left unshredded for future purposes, but that’s a paranoid’s view. It’s among the possibilities.
“The best we’ve been able to do is run the trail back here, to this office.” Drummond saw Bud’s lips part slightly as the enormity of the situation continued to sink in. “The typewriter used for the first three pages is right there.” The DDI pointed to the DCI’s machine on the oak rollaway behind and to the right of the desk.
“That’s a photocopy you’re looking at,” Landau informed him. “The original is in my copy of the file.”
“So, what you’re saying, and what this information describes, is that the former director—”
“Correction, Bud,” the DCI interrupted, “the former upper apparatus of the Agency, probably including the DDI at least, and probably the DDO.”
Many had been surprised when the entire executive structure of the Agency had left after the new administration won the election. Now Bud knew why. “Okay. So they initiated a covert operation upon their own authority, without presidential approval or congressional knowledge. And this! Christ, were they totally oblivious to the possible ramifications?”
“Not anymore,” Landau responded. “Unfortunately they’re no longer with the Agency and even if they were, the trail they left is nonexistent, except for my predecessor.”
“Doing anything now would be counterproductive,” Drummond said, shifting in his seat. The whole damn thing made him uncomfortable.
“Counterproductive?” Bud raised his voice. “The action initiated by that...that man more than likely was the direct cause of the president’s death, not to mention the others.”
“Whoa there”—the DCI raised his hand to his front—“as much as you and I and Greg here find this distasteful, we can no more bring this into the open than the president could have taken precautions to safeguard his own life. If we do, a very important asset of ours would likely be compromised, and that would be counterproductive. This asset has given us a hell of a lot of vital intelligence on terrorist movements and intentions, including what just happened. But that is not confirmed—officially.”
“Unofficially?” Bud asked.
The DCI thought for a second before answering. “My predecessor apparently didn’t buy the colonel’s feigned humanism. Neither did I, for that matter, but the solution proved to be more of a catalyst than an end-all. Hell, he got us back. Grammar school-style revenge. Tit for tat. We wagged his tail and he pulled ours clean off.”
“And we take it. Has there been any confirmation on the success of our...” Bud hated to even imply ownership in the rogue operation. “... endeavor?”
“Nothing definitive,” Drummond replied. “But the colonel has been lying low. Very low.”
“There has been a resurgence of activity at the old training camps,” Landau noted.
That figures, Bud thought. “It appears we convinced the colonel that change was futile.”
There was a quiet in the room as Bud again looked down at the open file on his lap. He flipped the pages quickly, wondering who exactly had thought of the plan, and beyond that, what genius had decided to carry it out. This was precisely the reason for controls on covert operations, the process of which was supposed to begin with the president and move quickly to Congress, or at least to the small number of congressional leaders known as the ‘gang of eight.’ It was required by law as spelled out in the Intelligence Oversight Act. Sometimes Congress wanted too much control over executive actions, Bud believed, but this would have been a perfect time for some knowledge of the operation.
“So,” Bud began, “you want me to decide whether the president is to be informed of this. Am I correct?”
The DCI’s answer was silent, but obvious. He detested having to be the custodian for his predecessor’s dirty work. Damn them!
“Your recommendation, Herb?”
“If you inform him there is no deniability. His lack of action against a former government official who has violated several federal statutes can be construed as obstruction of justice. If he does decide to take action then we open up a new can of worms.”
“It’d make Iran-Contra look like The Peoples’ Court” Drummond added.
Bud was angry. “Is it just because I spent twenty- five years of my life as an honorable military officer that that word—deniability—has a decidedly sinister ring to it? Or has it become a concept, something our political leaders must have? A fallback tool instead of that old standby: responsibility? I tell you, gentlemen, this kind of garbage ... I don’t know.” There was a long pause. “I imagine we’ll be dealing with this for a period of time to come.”
“Who knows,” the DCI said, lifting his hands in a gesture of wonder or futility. Bud couldn’t tell which.
Bud closed the folder and ran the long edge between his thumb and forefinger. It felt slick, almost wet, and the rough edge, neat and straight from its limited handling, was sharp enough to cut skin. He handed it to the DDI, who looked to the director before returning it to his case.
There was a curse that came with knowledge. If Bud were to let it stop here, with him, it might be over, and any crucifixion for nondisclosure could be absorbed by him. But that held as much appeal as his old days in Wild Weasels. Soaking up the heat for someone else went against his grain, and that was what would be truly counterproductive. The truth was that it was just too risky to inform the president. Bud could take the rap if it ever did come out, but suspicion would always lead to the president. The damage would be done—and severe. But then it might just bury itself.
“It’s a no-win situation,” Bud observed. “A shitty no-win situation. All in all I’m glad you filled me in, but I didn’t expect it to start like this.”
“D.C. is no Disneyland,” the DDI pointed out. “This is not a fairy tale.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Bud’s sarcasm was directed to no one. “I guess I should have expected less from the brochures.” He rubbed his smooth upper lip while thinking, but the decision was already made. He was just trying to reconcile it with his conscience. “Okay...this stays in this room. If it ever becomes necessary I will inform the president myself. My gut tells me otherwise, but this seems like the best course.” Bud stood, as did the DDI. “I just hope it is.
“Well, I’ve got to get going.” He didn’t but he had to get out of that room. Out of that building.
“Bud, thanks for coming over.” The DCI offered his hand. Bud accepted it, shaking the DDI’s next.
“Thank you, Herb...Greg. Maybe next time it’ll be something mild, like an increase in Chinese SSBN deployment.”
The DCI laughed. “Okay. We’ll see if we can arrange that for you.”
The acting NSA left and was airborne a few minutes later, heading back to the White House through an early-autumn storm. Drummond returned to his office, leaving the director of Central Intelligence alone at his desk. He turned again toward the window and thought for some time of the topic at hand. It made him mad as hell that someone with his authority could go off like a loose cannon and leave the mess for others to clean up. But that was the reality of government. That drew a private smile. His predecessor was enjoying a lucrative slot on the lecture circuit, reportedly pulling down twenty grand a speech. A couple of engagements would buy a lot of coffins.
Maybe, though, it would be over now. Who could pay? No one, he believed, so what was the point in looking back. It was over. Done.
He could not have been more wrong.
Two
ABOVE AND BELOW
East of Athens
The deep shadows of the coming summer evening stretched out from the Greek coast to cover the Aegean Sea in an eerie blue incandescence as the light danced rapidly from the earth below. Andros, a larger island in the chain of many smaller ones, was directly beneat
h the Clipper Atlantic Maiden as she descended gracefully toward Athens, her stop for the night. She floated downward, the sun low on the horizon but still gleaming brightly off her shiny surfaces. Her sister ship, the Clipper Angelic Pride, was some forty nautical miles behind on a flight from New Delhi, though she would be doing a quick turnaround and flying on to the States overnight, New York being her final destination. The Atlantic Maiden, inbound from Beijing, would continue on across her namesake ocean the next morning on her somewhat special flight.
Captain Bart Hendrickson, the picture of a sturdy Nordic American, loved his job and especially the Maiden, as he called his plane. It was not just his plane. Other pilots flew her, as was the norm in the scheduling of flight crews in the operations of the larger carriers, but he had been very fortunate to rotate into the Maiden two times out of every three over the last nine months.
She was a new—in aircraft life—Boeing 747-400, one of the more recent generation of jet airliners that relied on new technologies to enhance their performance and extend their useful life. The bulk of the advancements were on the flight deck, the cockpit, which now required a crew of just two: the pilot and a first officer. Use of video display-type screens for nearly all of the instrumentation and the condensation and restructuring of information presentation had allowed for a reduction in the crew size from the old four. The move was fought tooth and nail by the pilots’ unions, who claimed that it would be a safety risk. Captain Hendrickson knew that claim for what it was: a complaint that jobs would be sacrificed and the ladder to reach the pinnacle of flying, a captaincy, would have a discouragingly large number of rungs added to it. In the major airlines a pilot could wait up to thirty years to command a jumbo jet. Elimination of the flight engineer position on the flight deck would reduce the number of entry slots and the need for pilots. It was a wise economic move for the carriers to appropriate planes such as the 747-400 and its newer and smaller cousins. Profit margins were shrinking in the industry, making every penny count. Bart Hendrickson, fifty-eight, blond with no hint of gray, and a wearer of the coveted bird wings for thirty-two years didn’t care much for the financial or economic reasons for the changes. The main thing was that he felt flying was safer and, as important, more fun.
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