The Planner

by Robert Smith

“KISS!” replied Nicholas.

  “Kiss?” smiled Bates.

  “Keep It Simple, Stupid,” Nicholas explained.

  “So that’s what you’ve done?” smiled Planner.

  “Not exactly,” Nicholas winked back.

  * * * *

  Planner was packing up, ready to leave the office when he heard a deliberate cough behind him. Planner turned to see Indigo, his curly hair looking ruffled, wearing an uncertain smile. “I was just wondering whether I can have a quick word,” muttered Indigo uncertainly.

  “Sure. Sit down. Actually let’s go into this room,” said Planner pointing to a side office.

  “So what’s your role?” asked Planner once reaching the relative privacy of the room.

  “I’m in charge of Alignment: story and artefacts. I liken the role to a Continuity Supervisor on a movie,” said Indigo briskly.

  “So any problems with that?” asked Planner.

  “I feel as though we are getting on top of the problem now with more staff coming on board. We have access to workshops and materials now, which was a problem last month,” said Indigo airily.

  “So what’s up?” asked Planner trying not to sound irritable.

  “You said that people should voice their concerns over the mission,” said Indigo meekly.

  “Right. I felt you were a little bit wary about the mission in the briefing. Are you going to ask me, is it really going to be worth it?”

  “Pretty much…” admitted Indigo.

  “Is this about being a domestic job or just the whole job in general?” asked Planner carefully.

  “I think I’m thinking more about the job because it is in the US. It’s hard to articulate because I know it shouldn’t matter… but it does.”

  “So is it the objectives of the mission? Or the possibility of collateral damage?”

  “Both really,” squirmed Indigo.

  “Collateral damage. Yes, there will be. The PsyOp needs the shock value of many deaths. But as I mentioned earlier we have a range of measures to reduce the real numbers compared to the publicised numbers.” Planner stands up and paces he room. “US citizens are confronted with danger every day: on the roads, by medical procedures, military missions. There is risk in everything. Our operation is just adding to the risks for one day. One day. And from that day, our sponsors are hoping and expecting a pay off of long-term security and benefits to the American people. I can’t give you any assurances on that pay off. I’ve been involved in several of these types of missions; Horrible events… They are not pretty… You really don’t want to know… They often do not even achieve the end result required by our sponsors. But that’s our job. We won’t be told all the objectives. For this one, it’s the same. I’ve been given the general context no different from the one I mentioned in the briefing. I haven’t been told any more than what you have. I just have to trust the people in Washington and hope to God that they know what they’re doing. I don’t know whether that has helped at all?”

  “Yes it has,” Indigo replied with an uncertain smile.

  “If you want to exit the mission, then just say and I’ll get you re-assigned tout suite,” said Planner.

  “No… no. It’s ok. I just needed the pep talk. Thanks for that, Planner. I hope you don’t mind me laying this on you,” said Indigo.

  “It’s not a problem, Indigo. This mission is a hard one, that’s for sure. And these chats can really only be done one-on-one. If you hear of anyone else with similar concerns then refer them to me,” replied Planner with inner satisfaction.

  “Sure. Ok, thanks.”

  Chapter Three: California

  Bates and Planner were close to the Main Langley Car Park, at a taxi pick up point, just about to make their separate ways to the airport. Although, none of the taxis were public taxis but dedicated shuttle vehicles for CIA employees to re-enter the real world without being identified.

  Bates asked, “So what do you think about all this?”

  “The planning for this is more advanced than I imagined”, said Planner nodding. “I thought this was going to be mainly media management, regular PsyOps. It is considerably more than I thought. A lot of work has already gone into this.”

  “Indeed. Everybody knows the target was the World Trade Center, by the way.”

  “They do?”

  “Unofficially, yes,” teased Bates. “Of course, if terrorists really wanted to attack our capitalist heartland, they’d fly an aircraft into the Brooklyn Bridge; that would cause chaos for years. But I’d guess that would be too easy.”

  A taxi drew up before Planner could respond.

  “Anyway…” said Bates. “See you at the airport. Next stop: California!”

  * * * *

  Planner and Bates checked in their bags at the business class desk. The check-in agent, with a restrained smile, upgraded them to First Class. Planner and Bates exchanged knowing looks.

  * * * *

  Travis Air force Base was unseasonably chilly and overcast at 8am. Following their breakfast briefing, Planner and Bates were driven out past a line of big jets; three high-winged, four-engined, Boeing C-17 Globemaster III military transport jets. Behind them were Military Boeing 767 aircraft, the subject of their visit, which despite their similar dimensions, looked smaller in comparison to the military beasts.

  The air base was unimaginably long and thin and bleak. They drove in a military HumVee at the regulation 20mph for twenty minutes northeast along the Perimeter Road, which runs parallel to the main runway. Due to the steel under-body armour plates in the HumVee, motor noise reflected up into the cabin prevented most forms of spoken communication. The driver wore a headset and their host for the day sat in the front seat, with Planner and Bates sitting uncomfortably in the back.

  The vehicle eventually parked beside a painted mark on the road. There seemed no reason why this point rather than at any other point along that straight featureless road. Planner and Bates stretched and yawned as they exited the vehicle. The driver stayed inside vehicle, while their escort, Colonel Purple, stood using his cell phone. “Purple” was his Rainbow colored code name. He insisted on retaining his rank hence the Cluedo-sounding sobriquet. He was five foot six, slightly overweight with a short stubbly gray moustache. He had a short-sleeved uniform and must have been cold compared to Planner and Bates wearing their east coast coats. His phone conversation was short and was soon ready to brief his two Washington dignitaries.

  “A noisy vehicle!” said Purple cheerfully, in a thick southern accent.

  “I guess we can’t travel first class all the way”, sighed Bates.

  “So you flew overnight”, Purple enquired politely.

  “The Red Eye”, Planner said.

  “I don’t find it so bad coming east to west myself”, Purple continued conversationally. “I’ve been doing it every month or so for the past twenty years.”

  Planner and Bates made bland comments about not wanting to do the same. The airfield became silent and Bates started looking around. He could see a gray Boeing 767 flying in the distance.

  Bates said, “So that’s the military version of the 757? I’m not an airplane expert, but wouldn’t a plane spotter spot the difference?”

  “No, Sir, that’s a standard civilian 767. We’ve just painted it gray. Once we receive your instructions on livery, it will be indistinguishable from a civilian airliner. Just waiting for your instructions on that.”

  “You have a good crew for that, Colonel?” asked Planner.

  “The Best, Sir! We have the best. Totally reliable in all respects”, the Colonel replied emphatically. “The work will be carried out at MacDill Air base. Doc Zakhiem has placed a 767 tanker contract down there and we can siphon off the machines we need.”

  “Old McThrill, eh?” said Planner.

  “You’ve been there?” asked Purple.

  “Sure. There’s special ops unit there I’ve used in the past. And Florida is good for us,” said Planner with Bates wrapping his coat a
round himself for warmth, nodding in agreement.

  Purple’s watch bleeped indicating the appointed time was imminent. “Ok, Gentlemen, if you look over to the west, you’ll see the latest test approach.”

  There was the sound of a jet engine far away. A minute later, a gray painted 767 flew over in a direction 90 degrees to the runway, directly towards them.

  “This plane is currently flying at 7000 feet. It will now descend to just a few tens of feet, over the runway, there”, said Purple, pointing to the runway just a hundred yards away.

  The plane started to bank port and descended rapidly. At the far end of the runway the plane had levelled out and started descending at a constant rate directly over the runway as if to land. However, the undercarriage remained retracted and the plane appeared to be accelerating rather than slowing down. In just a few seconds the plane had raced the whole distance of the runway. At the closest point of approach to Planner and co, the plane appeared to look as though it was about to plough into the ground. But then with a whoosh the plane was away slowly pulling up and flying straight to the north.

  “Wow,” gasped Planner.

  “Previous runs have shown we are on target within plus or minus two feet,” stated Purple.

  “So what height did it descend to?” asked Planner.

  “Twenty feet. We can’t get any lower because of ground effect; that’s air pressure keeping the aircraft aloft.” Stated Purple.

  “That is impressive piloting,” said Bates.

  “Pilot? No, Sir. This testing is too dangerous to have people on-board. It is robot controlled. The plane is a drone.”

  “Of course! Of course! So no pilot required in any way?” said Bates.

  “The flight path is all planned on a computer; Loaded up into the autopilot via a special unit called the Flight Termination System. I always thought that was a strange name for the device. It provides the one new trick absent from a standard autopilot, that is, to allow take-off without a pilot. We’ve had remote controlled aircraft since World War Two and planes have been flying and landing by computer for decades. And then, one more thing; in order to fly with pin-point precision, you just need the high fidelity radar and military-mode GPS16”

  “You just need that, huh?” said Bates sarcastically.

  “Oh, and ten GPS satellites within line of sight,” said Purple to emphasise just how difficult it was.

  “Ten satellites?” asked Planner.

  “GPS coverage at any one point varies from around 6 to 12 satellites at any one time. It’s the only way to get the required accuracy. Hence why you are out in this field at such an unholy hour, gents… And remember, where we don’t have sufficient radar coverage, we need a chase plane.”

  “Chase plane?” asked Bates.

  “It’s like a look out”, said Purple. “Just keeps track of the drone. Just occasionally we lose sync with GPS and the drone strays off the flight plan; Very infrequent and easily corrected. We use a gulfstream executive-style jet as the chase plane.”

  Bates held his tongue and considered what he had just seen and heard.

  Planner perked up and said with satisfaction, “That’s great. So we’re all on track?”

  “Yes, Sir. Next week, we’ll be testing two drones simultaneously and then we’ll be ready for the complete aerial exercise.”

  Planner’s smile faded. “What about four?” he asked.

  “Two was our specification. Two targets.”

  “Can you do four?” asked Planner.

  “Launching four aircraft simultaneously? Eight aircraft with chasers… That’s a lot of work. We’d probably need to commandeer another airfield…”

  “How about two followed by another two. Say, within a 90 minute window? We don’t need the chasers over New York since we already have the high fidelity radar in place there.”

  “That maybe possible… One chaser for two drones, maybe. We’d need to see a detailed schedule,” said Purple rubbing his chin.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Planner.

  Colonel Purple had another call on his cell phone and Bates and Planner walked a few yards away, buffeted by the lingering wake vortex generated by the fast fly-past.

  “Four aircraft?” said Bates. “You know we’ve been planning for one.”

  “Well, Unofficially, it’s four,” replied Planner with grim humour.

  “The Big Event. That’s singular: one!” Bates continued. “We’ve assumed Operations Northwoods: one aircraft and 200 passengers. We can’t handle anymore than 200 people. That’s 200 people going into the witness protection programme. That’s already stretching it past its capacity by a factor of ten.”

  “Well we knew we had some work to do. I guess that is what we’ve been recruited to sort out,” replied Planner.

  Bates gave it some thought and, with the wind dying down, and the sun warming his back, he softened his complaints. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ll sort it out,” he said.

  * * * *

  Bates and Planner flew back east later that day. Planner crashed out exhausted when he arrived back home. He was still in bed at lunchtime when his cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Bates. I think you better come in this afternoon. There’s a few more problems”, said Bates over the phone.

  “Problems?”

  “When can you get here?”

  “Give me an hour,” Planner clicked off and walked to the shower.

  * * * *

  Bates greeted Planner as soon as he walked through the Operation Rainbow office door.

  “Ok, what sort of problems?” Planner asked.

  “It’s about the hijackers,” replied Bates.

  “Oh?”

  “They’re not happy!”

  Bates escorted Planner into a small office and a slim, suited, almond-eyed, woman joined them. This was Turquoise, generally known in the office as Turq. She provided an avalanche of strange-sounding names and a discussion on operational difficulties that Planner would find hard to follow, even if he was not jet-lagged.

  Planner had to stop the conversation, “I think I’ve lost the plot. Can we skip back to the beginning?”

  Turq gave Planner one of her laser-like stares and after a couple of seconds, and with the sound of teeth grinding, said, “Yes, Sir. We have selected ten middle-eastern men for the… hijackers.” She used air-quotes for the word. “We call them the Rainbow Actors and have numbered them one to ten. We’ve arranged visas, accommodation and have been keeping them busy. Some are ex-military and easy to organise. Some of the others are booked into a flight school down in Florida where we’ve been able to keep an eye on them.”

  Planner with relief, said, “Thank you, Turquoise. I’d lost the context, that’s great. So what’s the problem?”

  “The Rainbow Actors are coming up to see us. They want assurances on money and their new identities.”

  “Us? Here? Coming up to see us? No way!” Planner knew the first rule of Intelligence Operations: the puppets needed to be kept well away from the puppet masters.

  “Yeah, Way. Six of them.”

  “Can we stop them?”

  Turq sighed, “Not so easy. We communicate by drop boxes and an intermediary called Hiijii. We only talk to him face to face; never by long-distance phone calls. They are coming up now. We can’t communicate with them without breaking our communications protocol.”

  “It’ll be logged by the NSA17,” added Bates.

  “I know the protocol,” Planner said with mild irritation. “But what assurances? Haven’t they already been paid in cash and arranged their own new passports and the rest?”

  “They are not satisfied. They’re worried,” Turq said and hesitated slightly. “Personal safety issues. Mainly because they have been tracked by the FBI.”

  “I thought we had an agreed management plan,” said Planner.

  “Well, yes,” she said, becoming uncomfortable. “But something sprung out from a non-controlled source. Over at t
he Defence Intelligence Agency18, there’s a research programme, called Able Danger19. It loaded up models of everybody in the USA and plotted out their behaviours and considers who could be a terrorist.”

  “Everybody? What?” gasped Planner.

  “It plots people’s origins, networks, jobs and funding,” continued Turq, counting out the factors on her fingers. “Apparently, foreigners connected to known villains, with no jobs, but with plenty of money, light up their dashboard like a Christmas tree.”

  “You’re saying our patsies were spotted by a giant computer-dating programme?”

  “In a way,” smiled Turq, relaxing for the first time in the meeting. “Network analysis is not exactly the same as computing dating but it is an adequate analogy for the time being. In any event, some the Rainbow Actors came up on their short list. The DIA called the FBI. The FBI sent out agents who identified a bunch of middle-eastern folk, training as pilots, that, I quote,” said Turg, reading from a sheet of paper, “Were not interested in take off and landing, just flying large aircraft.20 The FBI escalated the matter up their chain and it was passed over to us. So in that respect the management plan did work.”

  “So can we stop the FBI’s surveillance?”

  “We have a plan to stop it. The trouble is, it’s like a dog with a bone. One of the FBI agents is their Bin Laden expert21,” said Turq.

  “When are we supposed to see the hijackers?” sighed Planner.

  “Tomorrow,” said Bates.

  * * * *

  It was raining hard on the way home. Planner parked his car on a quiet country road and took out his Blackberry cell phone and an envelope. He removed his cell phone’s sim-card and opened up the envelope. The envelope had a new cell phone sim-card that he inserted into the phone. Since the NSA tracked all telecommunications, this swap ensured that the call would be virtually untraceable.

  He dialled a number.

  A voice on the end of the phone warily said “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” said Planner.

  “Hello, Planner. How is our enterprise coming along,” said his Lodge Master mildly.

  “Not too badly. We have several issues to resolve as you would expect. We are resolving them one by one, although… Sir, I do have a request to make.”