by Trevor Scott
Just as Jake was thinking of her, Su came out from a treatment room, her left hand and wrist sporting a new, lightweight green cast. She rubbed the cast as she approached the two of them.
“Thank you,” she said, bowing to Jake and then Bailey, her eyes sparkling as if ready to cry. “Don’t know how to pay you.”
“Compliments of Uncle Sam,” Bailey said. “Listen, we should get going.”
“Where?” Jake said, confused.
“Our guys transferred the images you took to a computer. You need to tell me what in the hell we’re looking at.”
With that, Lieutenant Colonel Bailey escorted the two of them outside and drove them in a Humvee to a squadron secure facility. From the outside the building looked like it could have been administrative offices, but Jake was escorted through a number of cipher-locked doors and into a bunker-like chamber in the center of the building, with enlisted Air Force personnel manning computers and others listening through headphones. They had left Su in a waiting area in the front entrance. Jake knew that only those who needed access to this area were allowed inside. Rank had nothing to do with it. In fact, the wing commander probably had access, but the base commander, who was more concerned with running the physical dimensions of Osan Air Base, might not have access.
Bailey stopped at a station with a staff sergeant sitting in front of a twenty-one inch LCD monitor. On the screen, Jake immediately recognized the photo he had taken.
“What the hell is this, Jake?”
Jake pointed to the center of the monitor. “As you can see, it’s dark. But here. That’s about the size of a three-story house. At first I thought it was a large telescope. Then this here opened. Can you flip to another photo?”
The sergeant clicked that one away and brought up another image in Photoshop.
“That’s it,” Jake said, pointing again. “I think you know what that is.”
“Sergeant Jones,” Bailey said. “Let’s increase the size and focus on this area.”
If there was any doubt before, that was erased once the image became more clear.
“You want me to clean up the color and contrast?” the sergeant asked.
“No,” Jake said. “We’ll let the folks in Langley take care of that.”
“Zip it, encrypt it, and send a copy to Agency HQ.”
“Send a copy to Shemya, Alaska also,” Jake said. “Colonel Tim Powers. His eyes only. He’s the project leader and resident expert.”
The staff sergeant looked at Jake and then to his commander.
“Do what the man says, Jones.”
“Yes, Sir.” The sergeant went to work.
Bailey patted Jake on the shoulder and pulled him aside. “Nice work, Jake. From what I understand, Washington has been trying to confirm knowledge of China’s laser program for some time.”
Jake laughed. “At least since the last administration let the Chinese walk off with the plans.”
“Fuckin’ goat rope.”
The colonel escorted Jake out of the secure area. When they got to an inner corridor, Bailey stopped and turned to Jake.
“That Chinese woman. She’s hot.”
“Yes, she is,” Jake said.
“You more than just working together?”
Holding back a smile, Jake said, “I can’t believe you asked me that. Let’s go get a beer.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Bailey led the two of them into the front waiting area. He was the first to notice something wrong. First, the sergeant he had assigned to watch Su was laying on the floor in the center of the room. Knocked out.
And Su was gone.
41
Langley, Virginia
When the new Central Intelligence Agency was formed out of the former CIA, FBI, and other government alphabet soup, they had sought a neutral ground to establish a new headquarters for the Agency. The location had to have enough room for new buildings, yet be close enough to the U.S. capitol. The powers that were at the time had selected Andrews Air Force Base near Camp Springs, Maryland. That would have been a good decision, and would have gone down in U.S. history as one of the most brilliant plans ever. The Air Force base was already a secure location, with the president’s fleet of aircraft based there. The airstrip also would have allowed the Agency to develop even further its own covert air force. But that plan was scrapped in favor of keeping it in the same old place in Langley, Virginia.
The external operations photo analysis division was housed in a deep, secure bunker used for that purpose since the Cold War. It was not only sheltered against a nuclear attack, but was filtered against chemical and biological agents.
The Director of Operations, or DO, whose name was only known by the upper echelons of the Agency, certain members of the office of the president, and members of the senate intelligence committee, leaned back in his swivel chair in a sound-proof office overlooking the photo analysts below. The DO was only six months on the job, having replaced the first man to hold that post, Kurt Jenkins, who had defined the new roll before moving on to the private sector as a consultant with the conservative think tank, The Western Institute.
A strong and intimidating figure, the DO still was not looking forward to this next meeting later that day. He held the photos from China, newly downloaded, decrypted, and enhanced digitally for his eyes only. It was obvious to him, even though he had not come up the ranks as a photo analyst, that the images were of a new land-based laser system nearly identical in dimensions and construction to their own system, although an older version that had been a prototype of the one they were establishing in the Alaskan wilderness. The secure call from Colonel Tim Powers on Shemya just minutes ago had confirmed his own suspicions.
Now he had no choice but to act.
●
An hour later, in a park a few miles south of Clinton, Maryland, the DO got out of the back seat of his Mercedes, dressed in running attire, told his driver he would be fifteen minutes, and wandered from the parking lot toward the trail where he frequently ran.
Glancing over at his driver, he stretched for a moment before heading out at a slow pace down the dirt trail. Clouds swirled above, threatening rain, and making the mid-day run seem more like a dusk outing.
In a quarter mile, he rounded a curve and started to slow his pace as he saw the two figures ahead. Then his slight jog became a walk until he approached the two men.
Also dressed in jogging outfits were the Chief of Staff Karl Oestreich, and General Wayne Boles, from The Western Institute.
“This better be good,” Oestreich said. He had a cigar between his thin lips, which he tried to light for the second time.
The Agency DO, hands on his hips and breathing heavily, lowered his head to waist level. Catching his breath, he rose up to his contacts.
“It’s what we expected,” the DO said.
“The Chinese have our laser?” General Boles asked.
“Yeah. We just got photo evidence from your man there, Jake Adams.”
There was silence as the three of them checked the facial expressions of the others.
Oestreich broke the silence. “What about the leak from Brightstar?”
The DO shrugged. “The Asian woman hopped on a plane in Seattle heading to Seoul.”
“Adams is in Osan right now,” Boles said. “That’s some thirty miles away. Have him intercept the woman.”
Oestreich swished his head from side to side. “No. We need to follow the trail. See where she leads us.”
The Agency DO, who ultimately had the last word on the issue, was conflicted. “I don’t know. If we let her go and she slips through, it’s my ass on the line.”
“I thought the DVD she had was encrypted,” Boles said, confused.
Letting out a heavy sigh, the DO said, “I’m afraid it’s worse than we had expected. Our folks in Seattle, through a little more persuasion, have gotten more information out of that Brightstar programmer.”
“Johansen?” Boles asked.
/> “Yeah. Turns out he had not only given the Asian woman the encryption codes, but he had sold her the entire schematic for our newest laser system.”
“You’re shitin’ me,” Oestreich yelled, moving closer to the DO. “How the fuck’d you let that happen?”
General Boles got between the two men, a hand on each man’s chest. “Settle down. Even more reason to use our free agent, Jake Adams, to take care of that woman.”
Somewhat recovered now, Oestreich asked, “What’ll this cost us?”
“Your job and a congressional inquiry if we don’t stop this woman,” Boles assured him. “You too,” he added, nodding his head at the Agency DO.
“That’s not gonna happen,” the DO said. “Send Adams after her. I don’t care what it costs.” He pointed his finger at the general. “You tell him to get that DVD and do what the hell he wants with the Asian woman.”
The Chief of Staff looked around. “Jesus Christ, don’t say shit like that.”
“We’re makin’ sausage here, folks,” the DO said. “It ain’t pretty, but it sure as hell tastes good when you’re done. It’ll make us all look good.”
Oestreich drew in a deep inhale from his cigar before letting out a heavy stream of smoke into the damp air. He smiled before saying, “What about Alaska?”
“What about it?” Boles asked.
The DO looked down at the ground and said, “We thought the shooter was our only problem there. Turns out he was the fall guy. There’s someone else. We have an Agency man there working on it.”
“Plug these problems,” Oestreich said, pointing his cigar at the DO. “What else?”
“I’ve authorized another officer to follow the Asian to Korea,” the DO said. “The man we had undercover at Brightstar. He’s on a military flight as we speak.”
“To Osan Air Base?” General Boles asked.
“Yes.”
“Great. I’ll have Jake Adams meet him when he lands.”
The three of them, in silent agreement, seemed somewhat content. As the wind blew through the trees overhead, the DO left the two of them along the park trail as he walked back to the parking lot.
Over the Northern Pacific
Flying at forty-five thousand feet, the B-2 stealth bomber, calm as a soft breeze, cruised at five hundred and fifty miles per hour. The two-man crew sat side-by-side in the cockpit, and Agency officer, Drew Fisher, lay behind them on an air mattress. Decidedly low tech, but not uncomfortable, Fisher thought.
When he had gotten to McChord Air Force Base near Tacoma, Washington, he was more than surprised to see the B-2 on the ramp taking on fuel. Fisher knew that the only squadron of the highly secret aircraft was stationed at Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, so he had to ask the base ops commander, who had met he and Harris at the operations center, what the aircraft was doing there.
“That’s your ride,” he had said. “But only one can go.”
There was no question that Fisher would be on that plane. After all, he had spent the last six months undercover at Brightstar. Besides, Agent Harris had just taken a bullet to her arm hours ago. She needed time to heal.
At first Fisher had thought the idea was insane. But then, during the quick pre-flight briefing, the pilot, Major Andrew Cox, had explained the math. The Korean airliner would be flying at an average speed of four hundred and sixty miles an hour with a headwind at thirty-some thousand feet. At fifty-two hundred miles, they would get to Seoul in twelve hours. The B-2, on the other hand, even though leaving an hour later, would fly at closer to six hundred miles an hour at forty-five to fifty thousand feet, and make the trip in about eight hours. A good three hours before the Korean airliner. Plenty of time to get from the American airbase in Osan to the capitol city by an awaiting helicopter.
“You alive back there?” Major Cox asked over his shoulder. “You were snoring a moment ago.”
“It’s a sweet ride,” Fisher said.
“Best ride money can buy.”
“Yeah, four billion a unit.”
The major laughed. “That’s a bargain, Mr. Agency man. Which reminds me. . . I hope you have a major credit card.”
The co-pilot laughed at that.
“Didn’t know they hired comedians in the Air Force these days.”
“Hey, I was in during the Clinton years,” the pilot said. “Had to have a sense of humor with that joker in office.”
Fisher couldn’t dispute that. “Hey, how far are we?”
“We passed the Korean airliner about a half an hour back. They, however, had no idea we were above them. We have virtually no wind, so we should trounce their ass by a good three hours fifteen minutes.”
“Excellent.”
Laying back onto the air mattress, Fisher thought about what had to be done in Korea. What would he have to do with the Asian woman? He had a feeling that would be entirely up to her.
42
Shemya, Alaska
At this time of year, there were only a few hours of sunlight in Alaska. So, although it was early afternoon, Agency officer Lance Turner and his Air Force OSI partner, Captain Dave Eyler, were still having a hard time seeing across the tundra along the western edge of the small island. They were both in forest camo, nearly fifty yards apart, laying among the small bushes. They could communicate with an earpiece and a microphone that wrapped down the side of their face.
Wind howled off the Pacific and over the three-hundred foot cliff ten yards away, so they could speak softly and not worry about their voices carrying more than a few feet away.
Turner had found the satellite phone after the last call had been made, but had decided to leave it there and catch the person making the call. It was the only way to tie the phone to the person.
There. Turner saw movement. He raised the night vision goggles to his eyes and the man came into view, moving through the low brush with purpose.
“There’s our target,” Turner said softly into the mic.
“Ready with the parabolic,” Eyler whispered. He had a parabolic microphone hooked up to a tape recorder. It was a crude system, but it was all that would fit out there in the middle of nowhere.
“Let’s hope the wind doesn’t fuck up our sound.”
Watching the man stop fifty yards away, Turner saw him stoop down for the phone hidden among the brush.
The call lasted exactly two minutes. Then the man started to put the phone away.
“Now,” Turner whispered. He slid his gun out of its holster and started to rise up from the brush. Knowing that the rest of Captain Eyler’s Air Force OSI agents would close in from the backside and cut off the man’s vehicle, Turner knew there was no escape. He crept forward through the brush with his night vision goggles down.
A few steps more.
Stop.
“Federal agents,” Turner yelled.
The man turned, drawing a gun. Three shots. Three flashes.
Turner crouched and returned fire. Three shots.
Silence.
Then came a voice over the mic. “Turner, you there?”
“Yeah, Dave. I think he’s down. Hold your position. Car secure?”
“Yes, Sir,” came another voice.
Turner moved forward, his gun leading the way. His breathing became louder, his chest heaving with each step.
“Damn it. He’s down. Call an ambulance.”
Rushing toward the man on the ground, Turner could see the blood on the man’s chest. Next to him now, he kicked the gun away from the guy’s hand and then holstered his own and kneeled on the ground next to him.
He had a pulse.
“He gonna live?” It was Captain Eyler, who had moved in, the parabolic microphone still in his hand.
“Don’t know. But keep that pointed at his mouth in case he says something.”
“Gotcha.”
Turner put his hand under the man’s head and then slapped him across the face. “Wake up, you bastard.”
The man lurched up, his eyes open.
He b
abbled a few words in Russian; questioning the profession of Turner’s mother. Turner pretended like he didn’t understand. The man pleaded for help and then mentioned money and his contact. Come on, Turner thought, you’re almost there. Then he brought up something and someone Turner was completely aware of, but the connection was not clear. The man was fading fast, though.
“What about Khabarovsk?” Turner yelled.
The man’s eyes opened wider. “Speak Russian?”
Turner said nothing.
Closing his eyes, the man went limp. Turner set the man’s head onto the grass.
Seconds later, agents moved in with lights, followed closely by two men with a gurney. The paramedics checked him over and started CPR, but Turner knew that would not work. One of his bullets had ripped through a lower lobe of the lung, and a second shot had given him a new belly button.
Moving to the satellite phone, Turner pulled it out from under the brush. If his hunch was correct, and he knew that it was, then the phone call could be traced.
“What was he saying?” Eyler said.
Turner looked up at the OSI captain. “I need to hear that tape of his conversation. Was it all in Russian.”
“Afraid so.”
Shit. Then he should have been on the parabolic. “Let’s roll it back and hear it.”
The captain did as he was told. In thirty seconds, Turner had the tape recorder on play and listened carefully through his headphones. When it was done, he rewound and listened again. Only when he was certain what had been said, he stopped and thought for a moment.
“What’s it mean?” Eyler asked.
“It means I’m heading back to Russia.”
“The only two words I understood were Jake Adams,” Eyler said. “You know him?”
“Yeah. We’ve met. Forget you heard that, though. Come on. We’ve got a call to trace and then I’m off to Russia.”
43
The sleek, black B-2 Spirit landed at Osan Air Base at seven in the morning, taxied to an isolated hanger, shut down, and then was pulled inside and closed up tight.
Jake waited as the aircrew opened the canopy and was helped down to the cement. The two in full flight suits were followed by a third man who wore a flight suit, but without the G-suit and other gadgets. All three looked like they were dragging from the long flight.