Cloudburst

by Pearson, Ryne Douglas

  The president stared at the screen for a few more seconds. There was a silence. Only the soft crackling of the static charge dissipating from the screen’s surface was heard.

  Bud knew it was time. He was reversing a decision he had made the day before. “Sir, there are some obvious questions raised by this.” He motioned to the TV. “Before we get to those I need to inform you of something.”

  “You make it sound ominous.”

  “It very well could be, Mr. President.” Bud’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He wanted a drink of water, but there was none close. “Yesterday Director Landau informed me of an...operation that was carried out during the last administration. Initially I made the decision not to inform you. The information is extremely sensitive.”

  The president understood. “Deniability.”

  Bud nodded.

  Director Landau said, “Apparently the operation was conceived at the highest level of the Agency and carried out upon the authority of the previous director.”

  “What are we talking of?”

  “Sir,” Bud began, “an asset we have high in the Libyan military responded to a request from us and notified the Agency of a trip Colonel Qaddafi was taking to Rome. We knew he was having health problems—gallbladder ulcerations, I believe—so the trip was anticipated, but the exact time was unknown. Our asset gave us that. The colonel underwent surgery for the problem in Italy.”

  “I heard nothing of this,” the president said, his voice up considerably. “I understood the Italians were distancing themselves from him.”

  “Exactly, which is why it was so quiet. Another reason being that the Agency didn’t want the information out. That might have caused the colonel to cancel his trip. They wanted him there. It’s even possible the Agency exerted pressure on the Italians—through which channels we don’t know—to let Qaddafi in. We just don’t know, and probably never will.”

  “Why? Can’t the CIA trace this, Herb. It was internal, so what is stopping you from finding out?”

  “Sir,” the DCI said, pushing himself upright. He found himself slowing in chairs more. “Any investigation would invariably lead to our asset in Libya. He very possibly could be compromised. Weighing his value as an intelligence source against the negligible benefit we might gain from getting the ‘whole picture,’ it is not worth it.”

  “He was not involved in what happened?”

  “No, sir,” Bud responded.

  “Not at all,” the DCI agreed emphatically. “He was used.”

  “I don’t believe I need to know any details about the asset, Herb. Bud?”

  “I agree.”

  The president felt relieved, though he had no idea why. “Good. Go on.”

  “While Qaddafi was in Rome for the surgery, an agent of ours was ordered to switch the blood supply for the colonel. The agent was employed by the hospital, so it was relatively easy. Again, we don’t know if he was a plant specifically for this purpose or if he had been working there for some time. Checking could be detrimental.” Bud waited. He knew a question was coming.

  “And why was the blood switched?”

  “To assassinate Colonel Qaddafi.” Again Bud paused. The president did not react. “Our agent replaced the blood designated for the surgery with tainted blood.”

  “Tainted?” the president asked, coolly.

  “Yes. The blood was purposely contaminated with trace amounts of plutonium chloride. That’s plutonium in salt form, and it dissolves rapidly in fluids. It doesn’t act as a poison. It does, however, do horrible things to cells, especially blood cells.”

  “And the effect?”

  Bud drew a breath. “Our indications are that the colonel is presently suffering from advanced leukemia.”

  “Can you explain the Agency’s logic behind this?”

  “I think so,” the DCI said, knowing he would have to choose his words carefully. “I’ll ignore the obvious because I have no way of knowing why a few men chose to ignore the law. However, there was considerable intelligence from our asset concerning the colonel’s reneging on his promises to end support for terrorism. He may have been gearing up for revenge attacks on Americans. He has never forgiven us for killing his daughter in the eighty-six raid. Plus, there may have been some direct PLO pressure during and after the Gulf War. My predecessors believed this was the best solution. It would provide a reasonable cover, possibly even to the colonel himself, and with a little disinformation—leaks about his ‘long-term illness’—there could be a logical explanation. That, though, is where my predecessors screwed up.

  “Tracing leaks is not difficult. We usually pass information to European sources first. That gets it into their press fast, and ours pretty soon after that. All intelligence services have usual channels for routine disclosures.”

  “Routine I can understand,” the president said, “but this was not routine. Not by any stretch.”

  “I know. Why they handled the operation that way... I don’t know. I’m at a loss, but the fact remains: That aspect of the operation virtually assured that Qaddafi would find out that we were responsible.”

  “So, this is his revenge. And he’s still alive?”

  “We don’t know for certain,” Bud responded. “He hasn’t been seen in public for six months. He even missed the Pan Arab Summit in Tunisia four months ago. As for revenge...maybe.”

  “It seems fairly obvious.” The president raised his brow. “Or not?”

  “There’s more, sir.” Bud ran through the rest of the information quickly in his head.

  A deep, nasal breath. “Yes?”

  “As we said before our asset has been giving us valuable intelligence on terrorist networks and activities for some time now, including a warning earlier this year that an attempt on the life of the president was being trained for. He gave specific details that match very closely with the actual assassination.”

  The president’s eyes went wide. “We knew there was a threat before...and nothing was done?”

  “Yes, sir, and President Bitteredge was informed. He refused to allow any overt safety measures to be taken because of the chance it might compromise our asset. It was his decision.”

  “So some wild, unauthorized operation carried out years ago has led to this? God!” He stood, shoving both hands deep in his pockets.

  The DCI was pleased that the man was angry. Truly angry.

  The president looked back to Bud. When their eyes met the anger drained instantly, replaced by a sense of coming disbelief. “Your face tells me there’s more, Bud.”

  At least this is the last surprise—I hope. “Mr. President, just before this meeting Director Landau informed me of some very disturbing news—especially so considering what we’ve just seen. Herb...”

  “Mr. President, it is our belief that the Libyans may have the capability to construct a nuclear weapon.”

  Slowly the president sat down again. “And it may be on that plane.” His teeth were clenched. “I do not expect that it’s an accident this is all happening at this time. I would like some explanations. One minute.” He walked to his desk and picked up the interoffice phone. “Mary, I’d like you to notify my nine o’clock that we’ll have to reschedule... No, no specific time yet... Thank you.” He took his seat again and motioned to the DCI.

  “Sir, have you heard of Anatoly Vishkov?”

  “A vague memory, that’s all. Nothing specific.”

  Herb continued. “He’s the thorn in the side of the Russians, and a major reason the Cubans are still at odds with their former big brother over reforms. He was a nuclear physicist, still is, but now he has no real allegiance. Sort of a wunderkind weapons designer, until he took a trip.”

  The president remembered. It showed on his face. “He was the one who defected.”

  “Correct,” the DCI affirmed. “An act more damaging because it was to a ‘brother’ country. I know, it seems strange, but the Soviets of old could accept someone like Vishkov coming over to our side. But to defect�
�emigrate may be a more choice word—to a fellow Communist country? And worse yet, the Cubans let him stay...and guaranteed his safety. A lot of things have changed in Russia but not so much that their military would let a scientist of his caliber leave their domain. Especially the Strategic Rocket Forces. They keep a tight hold on their people, and they do consider them their people. Their own domain. That makes Vishkov a very lucky, and a very shrewd, man. The only reason Castro hasn’t given him back is because he is married to the sister of a very high-ranking military officer, General Eduardo Echevarria Ontiveros. He was with Castro during the revolution, even at the attack on the barracks.”

  “So this general is protecting Vishkov?”

  “Correct, again, Mr. President Our sources indicate that a byproduct of all this business with Vishkov is a strain between Castro and a small faction of the military with ties to Ontiveros.”

  “Then how does Vishkov fit into the picture? Is he working with, or for, the Libyans?”

  Landau shook his head. “Not directly. Let me explain. We assume that he began marketing his designs after his defection. Selling them. Probably for cash, but we’re not one hundred percent sure of that. He might not actually need the money, but it’s certain he’s getting a bundle of it. To date, through intermediaries, he has sold designs for two weapons. Unfortunately, we were unable to acquire only one of the sets—the Libyans got the other one.”

  “Whoa! Whoa! Hold on. We bought one of his designs?”

  Landau might have been a subordinate, but not in wisdom. Holding such back was not his way. “If we didn’t, someone would have, and I am prepared to keep Vishkov in furs and caviar as long as necessary to keep his designs out of the wrong hands.”

  The president hadn’t experienced a subtle lecture since his college days. It reminded him that being wrong was a variable whenever one made snap judgments. He knew that, as the nation’s leader, he couldn’t base his decisions on emotions. There was still much to learn. “You’re right, Herb. Point well taken, and I’ll personally kick in for the next can of beluga.”

  “Yes, sir,” Landau said, chuckling only slightly. “Now we know that Qaddafi purchased a set of designs through his IRA contacts. We’ve known for many years that he wants nuclear weapons. Just about any leader in the Middle East would. He’s tried in the past to buy them whole from India and from the Chinese.”

  “Herb, I’m not well versed on this issue, but I thought the actual design of a weapon was not extremely complicated, I mean, we’ve had college students design bombs for their theses and doctorates for over ten years. Some guy did it while I was at UCLA.”

  “I may be less versed than you.” Both men looked to Bud.

  “My specialty was defensive penetration. I know a little, and probably as much about Vishkov.” Bud mentally reached back to his days as a member of the military ‘in club.’ “First, you’re partly right about the design aspect of it. The general design is within the abilities of most physics grad students, and a more detailed one could probably be managed by those same students with a little added knowledge and some delving on their part. The problem is that all these designs lack detailed spec sheets. Those are the parts lists: everything you’d actually need to build the thing. The builders of the first A-bomb called it the ‘gadget,’ and rightly so. Even the stuff we have today—artillery shells, warheads, etcetera—is extremely difficult to construct because of the close tolerances. Some of it’s unbelievable. A few microns off and the thing doesn’t work. You just end up with a squashed core and a minor radioactive mess.”

  “But Vishkov made some breakthrough in the design,” Landau interjected.

  “If there was a breakthrough, why wasn’t it bigger news to our intelligence agencies?”

  The DCI’s silence signaled his non answer.

  “Bud?”

  He didn’t know, either. “I think we need someone more knowledgeable to brief us on that point.” The president and DCI agreed.

  “Okay. So they may have placed a weapon on the aircraft. Three questions. First: Can they build a nuclear weapon? They have the plans, but what about the material and the technology to actually construct it? Second: What are they going to do with it if there is a nuclear weapon? Third: What can we do to stop this?”

  Bud thought the chief executive was remarkably calm. “Sir, trying to answer the first right now will be useless until we get some technical information first. As for what they’ll do, I think we need the input of the NSC on that...” Bud saw the president nod, signaling him to continue. “My thoughts, well”—Bud brought a hand behind his head, pinching the neck muscles—“this feels like an overall effort. It’s entirely possible that both the incidents are related. The assassination could have been meant to embarrass us and prove that we’re vulnerable. It also can add a factor of disarray to the transitional period. Your perceived inexperience probably was seen as the perfect target to interject some chaos.” Bud hated to say that, but it was reality. The press, fueled by the opposing candidates in the presidential campaign, had had a field day with the then vice presidential candidate. Fortunately it was largely ignored by the voting public, but, knowing the media, Bud was sure it would be hashed up shortly. Doubt was an easy sell in the papers. “The hijacking may be planned to exploit any confusion caused by the assassination. Maybe they’ll push for some concessions on who knows what. With the statement they issued anything could be on their wish list.”

  The president left the trio of questions for a moment. “What does Delta think?”

  “They’re in the early stages of planning,” Bud answered. “Andrew says they need more intelligence—how many hijackers, what weapons, etcetera. And they’re going to need to know what may be on there. If they go in, they’ll have more than the hijackers to deal with.”

  The president went back to his desk and flipped open his gray schedule book. “Bud, you have overall authority for handling this situation. Any final decisions are mine, but your recommendations will carry weight. Get the ball rolling if you need to, then inform me. I want a report at two this afternoon on progress, and if anything major happens I want to know immediately. Herb, any chance the asset you spoke of can get some information for us about what’s on the plane?”

  “Possibly,” Landau replied. “But it will almost certainly compromise him.”

  “Which means?”

  “We’ll have to extract him.”

  There were ramifications to everything a president or high government official decided or authorized, this event being a good example. The president pondered the decision. Reaction! He was forced into reacting to the assassination and the hijacking. The thought irked him, and also reminded him to be prudent. “Go ahead. I’ll put it in writing. Is this going to fall under the covert operations reporting requirement?”

  “The extraction, yes.” The DCI wanted to add a caution, “But...”

  “We’ll report on that after the fact,” the president said. Landau smiled and nodded. “I’m going to get Gordy in here. He needs to know about this, but I want the nuke theory kept quiet. Only those that need to know get it. No leaks.”

  There was no response. It was an order that needed none.

  “Let’s get to it and hope for the best” The president looked hopeful and confident to Bud. That was good, he thought, but then remembered the president’s stone debating face. He brushed that thought aside, which was just as well, because if he had looked closer he might have seen the worry in the chief executive’s eyes.

  Seven

  QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

  Washington DC

  The D.C. morning rush was nearly over. Joe Anderson had barely arrived at his Department of Energy office when a phone call sent him scurrying out to a waiting government car. The driver, seemingly annoyed at his taxi driver status, directed Joe to sit in the front seat next to him. No more was said during the short drive to the White House. Joe had been there before, once, to receive a quiet thanks from the president. There was a citation
of sorts, but it was all classified. That came with the territory. He wasn’t a war hero, after all.

  This was a little odd, however. No warning at all. If there had been he might have dressed for the occasion. Maybe his blue three piece, the one his wife picked out to make sure he matched. “You didn’t marry me for my fashion sense,” he often joked with her. The Park Service guards at the Executive Avenue entrance looked as serious as one could be, and there were more of them. They waved the shiny black Ford through the cement planter barricades.

  A few minutes later he entered the comfortable office on the ground floor of the White House. He recognized the two men right away.

  “Captain Anderson.” Bud stood and walked around his desk, shaking the visitor’s hand. “I’m Bud DiContino, the president’s national security adviser.”

  “Yes, I recognize you from the news.” Joe turned to the DCI.

  “Herb Landau, Joe.” He stayed seated in a wing back chair. Joe walked over to greet him.

  “Mr. Director.”

  “Have a seat, Captain.” Bud touched the back of a chair. “Director Landau filled me in on your background—it’s very impressive. He recommended we contact you.”

  Joe fidgeted visibly. “I hope I’m of some help.”

  He looked like a cross between a college professor and a drill instructor. Passionless eyes and tight skin topped by silver-gray hair. He was forty-seven. The hair must have been a family trait, Bud thought. It looked too natural to be caused by aging. And the voice: deliberate and measured. Every word carried maximum impact and was spoken slowly.

  “I understand you’re cleared for ‘Q’ material.”

  Joe shifted in his seat again. “I’m cleared for everything nuclear.”

  Bud smiled politely, realizing that he’d hit a nerve. “Captain Anderson, we need your expertise. We have a situation...a bad one. Potentially disastrous. First, let me ask you about Anatoly Vishkov. What’s so special about him?”