Deep State Stealth

by Vikki Kestell

  “Yes, Nano?”

  We have lost contact with Danforth’s array.

  “Would you pardon us for a moment, Mr. President?”

  Zander and I turned inward to the warehouse. The nanomites showed us the array’s feed for the last half hour. The nanobugs reported no calls or computer activity, only Danforth’s movements in his house while his driver waited.

  “How long’s he been in the house, Nano?”

  Minutes only, Zander Cruz.

  “Can you give us eyes on Danforth’s house?”

  One moment, Zander Cruz.

  It was actually several minutes before a neighbor’s security camera showed Danforth’s car outside his house.

  The President tapped me on the shoulder, bringing me back to our setting. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re watching Danforth, sir. Something’s up. He’s at home. We have eyes on his car and driver.”

  Of course, I didn’t mention the nanobug arrays and how the nanomites had been actively monitoring Danforth through his array. The man had sat passively in his office part of the morning and done some paperwork. He’d left his office and returned to his house midmorning, but he’d made no untoward calls so far.

  Until the array went off line.

  Jackson nodded. “Can you tell what he’s doing?”

  “Uh, not exactly, sir, but we’re a little concerned.” And I can’t tell you why without telling you how we’ve been surveilling the man.

  “While we continue monitoring Danforth, would you like us to finish our report?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Zander took over the telling. He didn’t stop until he reported on the FBI taking the SPOs and Wayne Overman’s remains into custody.

  “We want to convey our condolences on the passing of your friend, Mr. President. We know you had hoped to find him alive, to restore him to his family.”

  “Thank you, Zander. I appreciate your sympathies and your services. I have not yet spoken to Wayne’s wife, Debi, but she will appreciate the closure and being able to lay his body to rest.”

  “Yes, sir. We also realize that Danforth isn’t the brains behind the conspiracy, but he’s pretty high up. We believe the mystery woman is our real objective, but her identity still eludes us.”

  “Do you have an image of her?”

  I answered. “No, sir. Only the smallest portion of her face—a cheekbone and an eye. The nanomites are working around the clock to match those features to someone, but so far they’ve come up empty.”

  Zander added, “Once the NSA officers give Danforth up, the FBI might get him to flip on the mystery woman.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that,” the President murmured. “Danforth was a field operative for twenty years before he shifted over to a desk at NSA. The man knows how to resist an interrogation.”

  We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence at that point. It didn’t help that Kennedy had said nothing to us since we’d arrived. His stoic silence was making me antsy.

  I cleared my throat. “Will you be picking Danforth up, sir?”

  “Not until one of the SPOs flips on him.”

  “Well, we’ll keep tabs on him for you, sir.”

  Jayda Cruz, Zander Cruz. Danforth has returned to his car.

  Zander and I watched the video feed together.

  “He has his briefcase and a small suitcase. Nano, where’s Danforth’s array? Why haven’t we heard from it?”

  We fear it is dead, Jayda Cruz. Also, we believe Danforth’s driver has cut the wires to his vehicle’s GPS.

  I spoke the words before the conclusion fully matured in my conscious thoughts. “Mr. President, Danforth is running.”

  The President jumped to his feet. “Axel.”

  “Sir, I recommend we move to the Situation Room.”

  “Agreed.”

  Kennedy pulled his phone and hit speed dial. He alerted the President’s National Security Advisor, Vice President Delancey, and various others to convene downstairs in what was officially the John F. Kennedy Conference Room but was only ever called “the Situation Room.”

  Kennedy glanced at us. “Can you stay on Danforth?”

  “Yes.”

  The nanomites were already inside the security and traffic cams around Danforth’s house, and they were working to access commercial and government satellite feeds. Jackson gave one nod and strode toward the door. He gestured for us to follow. Zander gulped, but we trotted along after the President and Kennedy—invisibly, of course.

  “Stonewall on the move to the Situation Room,” Kennedy murmured into his comms to notify the President’s detail.

  To avoid the crush of staffers moving downstairs, Zander and I were getting farther behind the President. Before he got too far from us, I took the opportunity to send a thread of nanomites to whisper in his ear, “Mr. President, Zander and I will be in the room with you, but at a distance for our own security.”

  When he heard the whisper, he slowed in amazement for the briefest moment, clamped his mouth shut almost in the same instant, and nodded.

  WHEN THE PRESIDENT’S crisis advisors had gathered in the situation room and the Secret Service had closed the doors, Zander and I found ourselves sandwiched into a corner, where we tried not to jostle anyone or otherwise make our presence known. I was so nervous that I was sweating bullets. I could only imagine the anxieties Zander was suffering. When I felt his fingers curl around mine, I breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

  The President opened the meeting by addressing several aides. “I want immediate satellite imaging at the following coordinates—”

  He paused to pick up and slowly sip on the glass of water in front of him. Every ear and eye in the room waited for him to finish his order.

  “Oh!” I mentally smacked myself and edged up to the President. “Go, Nano!”

  They sent the coordinates and direction of Danforth’s vehicle along to the President. He cleared his throat and repeated them. I stepped back into my corner.

  A flurry of activity followed as military aides gave the orders to retask satellite imaging.

  “What is the situation, Mr. President?” This was from Alister Kirche, the President’s National Security Advisor.

  Jackson folded his hands. “Last night, the FBI arrested four NSA security police officers at a park a few miles from NSA headquarters. In their trunk was evidence of Wayne Overman’s murder.”

  The restless movements in the room stilled.

  “I have it on good authority that NSA Deputy Director Lawrence Danforth gave the orders for Mr. Overman’s death. He is, at this moment, attempting to flee.” Jackson nodded at the large monitor at the end of the room. “I want him tracked and arrested.”

  The National Security Advisor blinked and carefully framed his next words. “I’m very sorry, sir. We know Mr. Overman was a personal friend . . . however, should not the FBI be handling this search? Is there a national security concern in Danforth’s actions?”

  “It is true that Mr. Overman was a personal friend and, yes, the FBI should take the lead on Danforth’s arrest. To your point, however, Lawrence Danforth is the repository of a great many national secrets. We cannot allow him to fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. I agree.”

  Vice President Delancey spoke next. “Do you have any idea where Mr. Danforth is headed, Mr. President?”

  “Not yet. I—oh, I see you have him. Good.”

  Satellite imagery showed Danforth’s black SUV moving steadily toward 495, the D.C. beltway.

  “He appears to be headed back to D.C., Mr. President. Do you have orders, sir?”

  “Yes. Now that we have a location, someone get the FBI and local police on the line and have them intercept and detain Danforth.”

  Aides hurried to place the calls while we watched the progress of Danforth’s SUV on the monitors. At that moment, Danforth’s SUV sped into a tunnel that ran beneath multiple train tracks. Long seconds later, the car emerged and continued
toward a 495 on-ramp.

  Jayda and Zander Cruz, we have a concern. The speed at which Danforth’s SUV entered and left the tunnel does not match the time elapsed before it reappeared.

  “What?”

  Jayda Cruz, approximately seven point five seconds are unaccounted for.

  My head snapped up. I studied the satellite feed—the vehicles entering the tunnel from both directions.

  I got it.

  I crept out of the corner to within a few feet of the President. A thread of nanomites shot from me to him and whispered in his ear, Mr. President, Danforth left his car while it was inside the tunnel. He was picked up by the tan SUV traveling in the opposite direction.

  Jackson stared at the feed. “He’s switched vehicles! Follow that tan SUV—and inform the police and FBI.”

  The nanomites stayed with the President and whispered a few other things to him, but I was engrossed in the immediate response of the situation room. People knew their jobs and went after their tasks at the President’s order.

  “Zoom in. Get a plate number,” someone ordered. “Trace the registration.”

  Seconds later, a military aide announced, “Sir, we have the vehicle registration.”

  “Spit it out,” the National Security Advisor growled.

  The aide licked her lips. “The vehicle is registered to the Russian Embassy.”

  I would say that pandemonium broke out, but the atmosphere in the room was too edgy and controlled for the reaction to be described as an uproar.

  I kept my eyes on the feed. The tan SUV had hit the outskirts of the town of Gaithersburg and veered east, picking up speed. “Nano, what’s going on? Where is Danforth headed?

  Jayda Cruz, the nanomites whispered. “Luke 16. I know what I’ll do so that when I lose my job here, people will welcome me into their houses.”

  I was too preoccupied to pay attention to the nanomites’ odd Scripture quotations! But they pressed on.

  “The master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly. For the people of this world are more shrewd in dealing with their own kind than are the people of the light.” Their own kind, Jayda Cruz.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “He’s defecting!”

  I had spoken aloud.

  Ooops.

  President Jackson turned toward the sound of my voice, as did a number of personnel, none who could figure out who’d spoken. But, as confusing as my exclamation was, they had heard me—and recognized the validity of my unguarded statement.

  “Mr. President, the vehicle is only a mile from Montgomery County Airpark.”

  “Can that airport accommodate private jets?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lawrence Danforth cannot be allowed to leave American airspace. Get the Joint Chiefs on the line.”

  An aide dialed the Pentagon. Another fumbled for the number to the airport, and yet another reached out to the FAA. Tensions cranked up another notch as the National Security Advisor barked, “Get me the Russian Ambassador. Now.”

  “Put it on speakerphone,” Jackson ordered.

  The call to the Ambassador’s direct line went through and a pleasant female voice answered. “You have reached the office of Nicolai Rostavich, Ambassador of the Russian Federation to the United States of America. How may I direct your call?”

  “This is Alister Kirche, National Security Advisor to President Robert Jackson. I need to speak to the Russian Ambassador. Urgently.”

  “Yes, Mr. Kirche. One moment, sir.”

  Elevator music wafted from the phone’s speaker console while all eyes watched the dot on the satellite feed enter the Montgomery County Airpark.

  “What’s happening with the FAA?” the President asked. “Have they closed the airport?”

  “We have the regional office on the line, sir, but they are unable to raise the Montgomery tower.”

  “The direct line to the airport is also not connecting, sir.”

  “Who has the authority to shut down telecommunications like this?” the President roared.

  “No one, sir. It-it seems likely that it’s a hack directed at the airport. Whoever it is, the hack would need to be quite, er, sophisticated.”

  The other voices in the Situation Room quieted as the President shouted his frustration. “A sophisticated hack? Sophisticated, say, as in the NSA? Are you telling me Danforth tasked our own NSA resources to facilitate his escape?”

  An officer replied quietly, “The Russians could do it, sir.”

  “Would the Russians risk an international incident of such proportion?”

  “They might, sir . . . if they felt their objective—say, NSA Deputy Director Danforth—was worth committing a near-act of war.”

  Jackson glared at his National Security Advisor. “Is this enough of a ‘national security concern’ for you now?”

  The tan SUV wound its way through airport property. We all saw the business jet sitting on the tarmac. Waiting. Warming up.

  “Get the tail number on that plane,” Kirche ordered. “I want to know everything about it—who bought it, who it’s registered to, its range—everything.”

  “And where’s the Russian Ambassador?” President Jackson demanded.

  “We’re still on hold, Mr. President.”

  “Sir,” an aide interrupted. “The aircraft is a Citation X jet, seats eight passengers, range 3,700 miles. Waiting on the registration. Ah, here it is, sir. Er, the Citation is registered to the Russian Federation Government for the use of the embassy. It has filed a flight plan to Reykjavik.”

  “Where it will refuel before going on to Moscow.” President Jackson sat back, his dark skin growing darker with anger. “The Ambassador is stalling us. I want you to hang up and call back. Tell whoever answers that if Rostavich isn’t on the line inside of five seconds, we’re going to shoot down his jet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We were now watching two scenes on the monitors. One screen showed a phalanx of police cars, lights flashing, speeding toward the Montgomery County Airpark. The other screen showed the occupants of the tan SUV racing up the jet’s stairs. The view zoomed in on Lawrence Danforth as he mounted the steps and disappeared inside the plane.

  “That’s Peotyr Dostav just behind Danforth,” Kirche said. “D.C. Station chief.”

  “FSB, I presume?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So. The FSB is aiding one of our top intelligence officers to defect.”

  “Sir, I have the Russian Ambassador.”

  “Put him on speaker.”

  “Ready, sir.”

  “Ambassador Rostavich. This is President Robert Jackson. I just watched the Deputy Director of our National Security Agency, Lawrence Danforth, board a jet owned by the Russian Federation.”

  When Rostavich did not answer, Jackson said, “Ambassador, did you hear me?”

  “But of course, Mr. President. However, I did not know you asked a question of me.”

  Still stalling. Stalling for more time.

  The Citation taxied down the runway, gathering speed. At the same time, the line of police cars raced onto the tarmac. They poured on speed and tried to catch the jet, cut it off.

  It was a near thing, but the nose of the jet lifted from the runway into the air. It climbed aggressively and turned toward the ocean.

  Jackson covered the phone. “Chairman of the Joint Chiefs?”

  “On the line, Mr. President.”

  “SecDef?”

  “Also on the line, sir.”

  “Put them on speaker, too. I want Rostavich to hear me speak to the Secretary of Defense.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Secretary? Are you up to speed?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Scramble fighters to intercept the jet carrying Danforth.”

  The Situation Room heard the Russian Ambassador protest. “Mr. President, excuse me, but you may not do that! That jet is the property of the Russian Federation and is occupied by members of
the Russian delegation who have diplomatic status!”

  “Then they shouldn’t have taken off without tower recognition and permission.”

  “But Mr. President—”

  A gesture from the President cut off the Ambassador. The man could hear the events unfold, but his objections were muted.

  SecDef said, “Mr. President, we have scrambled F-15E fighters, 4th Fighter Wing, out of Seymour Johnson Air Force Base. Do you give the order to shoot down the Russian jet, sir? And what if it leaves American airspace before our fighters are within missile range?”

  Jackson looked around the room and found his Vice President.

  Delancey’s watery eyes belied the strength of his voice. “Mr. President, I concur: The Russian plane was not authorized to leave the runway and ignored the presence of law enforcement on the runway. Shoot it down.”

  President Jackson put his mouth to the phone. “I give the order—and I don’t care if the plane leaves our airspace or not. Shoot it down.”

  The situation room held a different tension now, one of solemn waiting. All eyes were glued to the monitors, watching the satellite feed of the Citation as it banked, gained more altitude, then straightened onto a north by northeast heading.

  “Three minutes to contact, Mr. President.”

  The Russian jet nudged the edge of American airspace. I wondered what the Russian Ambassador was saying on his end of the muted call. I dove with the nanomites into the phone lines. I had learned some conversational Russian in my personal studies, but I only understood a smattering of the words streaming from Rostavich’s mouth. I didn’t really need to know the unfamiliar phrases: I recognized profanity when I heard it.

  The satellite feed zoomed out and picked up two outbound blips, miles from the Citation.

  Over SecDef’s line we heard the pilots and ground control speaking back and forth.

  “Eagle One, you are cleared to engage.”

  “Roger that, Command. Target acquired. Missiles launched.”

  The satellite feed could not pick up the missiles as they streaked across the sky. One moment, the Citation’s blip was on screen. The next moment it wasn’t.

  “Splash one, Command.”

  “Roger, Eagle One. You are cleared RTB.”

  The Situation Room, as an entity, exhaled and began to relax—everyone but Robert Jackson. He remained seated, his head bowed over his folded hands, in what appeared to be deep contemplation.