Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  “It’s okay. I’m ready,” said Tom.

  “Good deal,” said Creighton. “He’ll be more interested in getting specific questions answered than seeing a dog and pony show anyway.”

  The two swept their cards on a scanner at another wood door within the entranceway, this one marked with brass letters, FBI Operations Center. Inside, several flat video monitors, massive in size and split-screened, immediately attracted Tom’s eye. A large conference table stood directly in front of the screens. Far behind the table were several aisles of computer-laden desks, attended by an assortment of men and women. In a glance, Tom noted that the screens had a variety of maps, video surveillance displays, and several people talking from what appeared to be other centers, either across the country or across the world.

  Tom came down to a rostrum next to the screens, to one side of the conference table. A large blue leather chair monogrammed with the Bureau’s seal dominated the table. A glass panel, again with the FBI seal etched on, separated the conference table from the room with computer desks, and a set of sliding glass doors joined them.

  “Okay, sir,” Molly said to Tom. “This dimmer controls the light here on your podium. I’ll control the lighting in the room. This clicker will control your PowerPoint. It’ll be all set up. And if there are any problems, I’ll be ready.”

  Tom looked forlorn.

  “Have you ever briefed this guy?” Molly asked sympathetically.

  “No, this is just my second time even being here.”

  She smiled. “He’s okay. He won’t embarrass you. Some of his assistants may take a swing at you, but he won’t.”

  “Great.” He breathed a sigh of relief, then a side door swung open and in walked several men and women.

  Tom recognized the director from his many appearances on CNN, Fox, and other news networks, and from the evening news the night before, when the anchor had interviewed him. Boy, will I have something to tell my family, he thought. The director went right to the big chair, where a yellow pad, pencil, and coffee cup were set out for him.

  “Okay, Agent Pope, what have you got?” the director said.

  “Sir, we formed an integrated task force several months ago after a contact informed us of the deaths of certain respected scientists, and an apparent common thread connecting them.”

  “That’s your Joan of Arc.” The director was well-informed, which immediately impressed Tom.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Believed to be a DPRK employee.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Working at the United Nations?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?” said the director.

  “Why what, sir?” said Tom.

  “Why is she helping us?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but she’s been reliable.”

  “Okay, I don’t see a downside yet. Keep going.”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “She knew of the death of a Dr. Harbinger at Berkeley and a Dr. Walter at MIT. Since then, we’ve been tracking similar deaths with Interpol in Europe and with the Russians.”

  “The Russians?” The director slid forward in his chair.

  “Yes, sir. We found out about the deaths of a Dr. Wiretrack at Oxford and a Dr. Boriskof at Russia’s Ioffe Physico-Technico Institute in St. Petersburg.”

  “My God,” the director said. All of his assistants rolled forward in their chairs and began taking notes.

  Tom flashed another PowerPoint display showing pictures of the victims. “Each worked in advanced engineering.”

  “That’s a little broad,” said the director. “Anything more specific they had in common?”

  “Each had worked, or was working, on advanced satellite engineering projects, including reduced payloads,” said Tom. “All were trying to apply developments in nanotechnology to reduce weight.”

  “Better.”

  At least this guy tosses out an occasional compliment. Tom felt a small uplift of pride.

  “So, who’s the culprit? The DPRK?”

  The next slide flashed up on the central flat-screen television. It showed not a picture, but a blank central box surrounded by lines of characteristics.

  “Presumably, sir, but other than Joan’s tip, we have no evidence to this effect.”

  “Dave, have we had any discussions with CIA or DOD on this?”

  Creighton leaned forward sheepishly. “No, sir. We’re getting information from them, but to date we’ve only made very generic requests.”

  “Goddamnit. I thought when I got here, I told everyone I wanted to break down these walls.”

  Tom knew the comment hit a nerve in the room. The FBI had inherited much from its father, J. Edgar Hoover, including the habit of keeping information internal. September 11 had proven the risk of that philosophy.

  “Okay, let’s get both CIA and Defense involved, and assuming it’s DPRK, what’s wrong with plugging in the KGB?”

  “Sir, KGB leaks like a sieve.” On this subject, Creighton was well informed by experience. Others agreed. “Given their past relationship with the DPRK,” Creighton continued, “it’s unlikely that any information won’t immediately leak to North Korea. Virtually every DPRK agent is KGB-trained.”

  “But won’t they be running their own investigation into the death of Boriskof?” the director asked.

  “Not necessarily, sir.” Tom inserted this comment and immediately regretted it. Such briefings were not the place to get brave. In this thin, high-altitude air, it was beyond daring to take too much of a leap.

  “Why?” the director said.

  “We didn’t start tracking the relationship between the three scientists until Joan connected the dots for us. With only one of their scientists killed, it’s unlikely the KGB will also have connected the dots.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, sir, this guy is using a very potent, advanced poison that acts very, very quickly and simulates a heart attack. That’s how Boriskof’s death was initially reported. The Russians still may not know it was an assassination.”

  “I see,” said the director, “but if they don’t know more, and thus suspect nothing, he’ll be able to travel through Moscow and St. Petersburg without risk.”

  “Yes, sir, and that may be our best shot.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, sir. We know where he’ll feel comfortable. And, in that, we have an advantage.”

  Another PowerPoint slide popped up, this one showing a U.S. Immigration officer in a tie and starched white uniform.

  “We did a scan on immigrations after Dr. Walter’s death and ran across Immigration Officer Benjamin Jones in Boston,” said Tom. “A member of my team, Agent Susan Safer, had come across the death of the Russian professor and cross-referenced it with the death of Dr. Walter at MIT. She then cross-referenced the time and dates with staffing at Logan’s Immigration and sent an email to the officers asking for anything unusual. She found Jones.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Officer Jones has been at Logan for twenty-two years. He remembered a traveler—a Mr. Chang—traveling from Paris to Boston shortly before Walter’s death.”

  “Any luck with the random photographs at Immigration?”

  “We got one photo, at a distance, of Chang passing through the customs hall at Logan.”

  “And?” said the director.

  “We did a cross-section of Immigration records,” said Tom. “Not only is there no Mr. Chang, but this man did not leave from Logan on his return.”

  “Okay, I’ve heard enough,” said the director. “Let’s give Tom’s group a higher priority and link them up with CIA and DOD.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Creighton.

  “And, Tom, I need to know the reason behind all these murders. Do we have an answer yet?”

  “No, sir. But—”

 
; “I believe I know the answer.” The comment came from the side of the table at the far end—from a thin, bespectacled, older man in a vested brown suit.

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  Tom leaned over to Creighton. “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the science advisor to the director,” Creighton whispered, his hand over his mouth.

  “It’s a need-to-know issue.” The science advisor said the words softly but clearly.

  “Need to know” was the government’s ultimate trump card. Even those with the highest security clearances might lack access to certain information because they lacked an official “need to know.”

  “Okay, Dr. Wilhelm, hold on a minute,” said the director. “Dave, provide need-to-know authorizations for you, me, and Agent Pope.”

  Tom’s heart skipped a beat. He was being given access to the most secret information by none other than the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was like a land grant from the king.

  “Okay, folks, everyone is excused for a minute. Molly, shut down this room and all portals,” said Creighton.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Creighton.”

  The group stood up, and as the final man filed out of the room, the glass partition closed and a curtain slid down from the ceiling, sequestering the four men from the remainder of the center. Tom felt something strange—a surge of excitement, as if he were a teenage boy being allowed into the most exclusive club in existence. He came around from the podium and pulled up a seat just to the side of the director.

  “Sir, this is a fairly long story.” Samuel Wilhelm learned forward and began speaking right to the director. He seemed comfortable in doing so. Dr. Wilhelm had held his job as scientific advisor through the change of several directors.

  “Go ahead.”

  “In August of 1998, the DPRK launched a Taepodong-1 missile. It was their first attempt at building a multistage rocket and putting a satellite into orbit.”

  Both Tom and Creighton leaned forward to hear the low, quiet voice. As Tom began to make a note, Dave Creighton slid his large, athletic hand over Tom’s, holding the pencil still. Tom took the hint and laid the pencil down.

  “Some of us nicknamed the satellite the ‘trucker’s AM radio station,’ or TARS, for two reasons: Its purpose was to play music glorifying Kim Il Sung, and the frequency band was the same as truck CB radios.”

  The director smiled briefly. “Did it work?”

  “They claimed yes, but the rocket’s second stage didn’t seem to have the required push. We had some tracking out of the North Hangyong Province missile base it was launched from, and the Kwangnyongsong-1, as they called it, was never confirmed in orbit.”

  “So, what’s the point?”

  “The K-1 satellite was about the size of a football,” said Wilhelm. “We are limited in what we can track. If something’s too small, we can’t track it. For all we know, that satellite could still be up there.”

  “Is it a threat?” said the director.

  “Oh, no, sir. As to the K-1, we scanned the band frequencies it was reported to be functioning on and never heard a thing. The point is, they were beginning to develop an intercontinental missile, and…they have been on the path of developing miniaturization technology. Later, they tested the TD-2. It was not much better. Broke apart over the Sea of Japan.”

  “I’m lost,” Creighton piped up. “What’s this all mean?”

  “It means that they are decades away from developing a rocket that can carry a payload the size of one of our older, conventional nuclear weapons,” said Wilhelm.

  “Okay.”

  “But they are within reach of developing a smaller, intercontinental rocket, and possibly a one-hundred-kilogram sixth-generation nuclear device. If they can reduce their payloads and still accomplish the same thing, they win twice. First, their rockets can carry the payload farther and higher, and—”

  “And,” the director interjected, “if it’s small enough, we would detect the launch, but not the weapon, or whatever else they put up there.”

  “Exactly. We could monitor frequencies and command instructions, but they’d have numerous ways to get around that.”

  “And,” Tom boldly added, “the dead scientists were involved in developing the same technology, and thus best informed on how to stop it.”

  “Again, exactly.”

  Creighton let out an audible sigh, underlining the point.

  “Okay, so is that why someone’s on a course to eliminate all these scientists?” The director raised both hands in a visual question mark.

  “I haven’t talked with the Agency lately on this subject,” said Wilhelm, “but my guess is that North Korea must have someone trying to corner the market on some of this technology.”

  “And an elimination of competition would do what?”

  “It would give them several years during which they, and they alone, could do a host of things.”

  “Yes, like exporting the technology, selling the technology, and—”

  “Blackmailing countries without the technology.” Tom again tossed in his comment without thinking.

  “Yes, Agent Pope. Blackmail,” said the director. “If any government in the history of the world has a reputation for resorting to blackmail, it’s the DPRK.”

  “Does it matter to us and our investigation if they have a scientist of this caliber?” Creighton asked.

  “The Agency will surely want to know what’s going on here, but all we really need is a clear sense of who this guy’s potential targets will be,” said the director. “We need to know who would be considered the scientist’s competitors, and in that regard, some sense of who or what they’re competing against.” The director tossed his pencil down onto the pad, where it rolled off onto the shiny mahogany table.

  “Sir, I suggest Dr. Wilhelm makes appropriate inquiry with his counterpart at the Agency, while we bring in our profiling team.” Creighton sounded like the captain of a Michigan football team.

  “And their purpose would be to develop a profile of the criminal?”

  “No, sir,” said Creighton. “In this case, they would develop a profile of the potential victim.”

  “Good idea, but we need to keep this very, very limited.” He cringed slightly, seeming to realize that he was backtracking on his previous interest in breaking down interagency walls.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Agent Pope, for now, keep this limited to you. Let your team develop its thoughts and use this information to guide them.” As he said it, he realized the potential cat-and-mouse game at hand.

  “Yes, sir,” said Tom.

  “But don’t expand it further than the absolute minimum.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dave, I need an update on this one with extreme regularity.”

  “Oh, yes sir,” said Creighton. “We’ll give Agent Pope the highest priority, and he’ll let me know what’s going on as it develops.”

  Tom knew an order from Creighton when he heard one.

  “Oh, and Agent Pope,” said the director, “I know this is sensitive to you, just as it would be to any agent, but we need to know how much information we can get from your source.”

  “Yes—ah, sir,” Tom stuttered. Like a news reporter being asked about his source, a good field agent took to his grave the identity of a good informant. Woodward and Bernstein probably felt the same when their editor asked about Deep Throat, he thought. But maybe I can give them what they need without getting into too much detail.

  The director sensed his hesitation. “I don’t plan on pushing you too much, you can be assured of that. For now, let’s just get this guy.” He jumped up and crossed beyond the table, offering his hand to Tom. “Thank your people for me,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let them know they’re greatly appreciated.”

/>   “Yes, sir.” Tom’s chest swelled with pride.

  Chapter 24

  Cheyenne Mountains

  “It’s quiet in both the Pacific and the Atlantic.”

  “How about China? Any planned launches today?”

  “No, quiet there as well.”

  The Missile Warning Center was good duty. A small computer room buried deep within Cheyenne Mountain’s Operation Center, the MWC was where sensors, satellites, radars, and surveillance equipment fed all their information from around the globe.

  If something big happens, I’ll be the first to know, thought Air Force Sergeant Billy Algrade. Which means I’m the one who gets to tell the president the shit has hit the fan.

  The Saturday morning shift at MWC had become rather routine for Billy, the senior noncommissioned officer of bravo crew CD. He enjoyed “being at this point of the spear,” as his commanding officer often said, although it grated on him that the generals would all be out playing golf while he spent his Saturday morning at work.

  “Why don’t you run off that stale, old shit,” Billy commanded his junior airman. Johnson and the crew always expected Billy to start each shift by giving them a certain amount of grief—and by ordering a new pot of coffee. This morning, Billy had managed to do both at the same time.

  “Yo, Johnson,” he said a few minutes later. “What the hell’s taking you so long?”

  At that same instant, the alarm began on the main computer—a shrill sequence of beeps—and in a split second repeated on the second, third, and fourth monitors. Dominoes seemed to fall as each computer sounded the same distress call.

  “What is it?” Billy said.

  Adrenaline coursed through the room.

  “Launch detection,” said Johnson.

  “Okay, check list and location.”

  “Sergeant, it’s the Pacific.” At that moment, the bravo crew officer of the day charged into the room and pulled up a chair next to Billy’s desk.

  “Okay, Billy, what’s it look like?”

  “Satellite detection of USA 394, sir.”

  “China launch facilities?” Satellite USA394 passed north to south along the eastern end of China, then across the East China Sea, the Korean peninsula, the Sea of Japan, and the Sea of Okhotsk.