Mission Compromised

by Oliver North

  THE

  MISSION CHANGES

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Corporate Headquarters

  ________________________________________

  Silicon Cyber Technologies International, Inc.

  Newport Beach, CA

  Friday, 17 February 1995

  0745 Hours, Local

  After his disastrous meeting with the Commerce Department the day before, Korman had gone directly to his office. The SCTI Gulfstream IV had landed back at John Wayne Airport in Orange County shortly after 8:00 P.M., and Korman jumped into his red Jaguar convertible. He sped to the SCTI headquarters in Newport Beach, making the trip down Jamboree Road in record time. The security guard waved him in, and Korman headed straight for the office down the hall from his, the one labeled HUMAN RESOURCES. He used his master key to let himself in and went to the locked file titled EXECUTIVE. Another key on his ring opened the lock. Thumbing through the files, he pulled the one with a plastic tab that read Storey, Robert A, BG, USAF (Ret.), sat down at a nearby desk, and opened the file.

  Fifteen minutes later he closed the general's file and stood up. He'd made his decision. Korman returned the file to its drawer, closed and locked it, shut off the lights in the personnel director's office, and closed and locked the door. He then walked down the expansive, well-appointed hallway to his own office and called the head of security.

  “Fred, this is Marty.” Korman had a company-wide policy that everyone was on a first-name basis. He had read in some management book written by another Silicon Valley whiz kid that this kind of informality was good for morale and helped instill “team building.” Korman didn't give a whit about building teams. All he wanted to do was to build and sell EncryptionLok-3s, but if other Southern California megamillionaires were using first names, he would too.

  “Fred, I want you to call the night security people and have them change the locks on General Storey's office. I want it done before dawn. Got it?” Korman paused, said, “Good, I'll depend on you,” and hung up the phone.

  Korman then left the building, waved to the security guard at the gate, and went home. He grabbed a good bottle of wine, a glass, and a Cuban cigar and went out on the deck to watch the surf and the stars and drink the bottle of wine. It was after 1:00 A.M. when the wine ran out. Korman checked his watch and wobbled into the house. He called Storey at home, got him out of bed, and told him to meet him in his office at 7:30 in the morning.

  Korman then called Marat, told him what he was going to do to Storey, and after listening for a minute or two, hung up and went to bed. The man who could “make electrons dance” slept for only a few hours before he got up. After showering and eating a bowl of cereal with a banana, as he did every morning, he roared off to his office. He was sitting at his desk when the general arrived, promptly at 7:30.

  First, Korman flew into a well-rehearsed rage about how the general's disloyalty was costing the company and how everyone who worked there faced the possibility of unemployment and ruin. He also ranted about his betrayal of Korman's trust and the company itself.

  Finally, at the end of the fifteen minutes, Korman called the general a traitor and said that he was no longer an active employee of SCTI. He knew that the wily general would either want to argue his way back into the company's good graces or threaten to go public and really raise a stink. So to ensure his cooperation, Korman presented Storey with a letter that made his “retirement” from SCTI effective that day and made his continued receipt of retirement benefits dependent on a total nondisclosure of any of SCTI's activities. That had been Marat's suggestion on the phone the night before. The nondisclosure agreement had more teeth than an alligator—but allowed the general to keep his retirement package of $300,000 annual compensation plus insurance. The general would, however, have to give up all of the perks that he had enjoyed as an active employee: credit cards for his unlimited expense account, a company car, and a luxurious $400,000 condo in Cabo San Lucas. On Korman's desk the general put the credit cards, car keys, and the special ID card that gave him access to all of the SCTI empire.

  The chastised General Storey had a choice: either keep his mouth shut or risk losing his pension from SCTI. Marat was convinced that the general would play ball in order to keep the money coming in. But if he didn't, they'd cut the compensation in a heartbeat. As an added incentive for Storey to go quietly, Korman alluded darkly to the possibility of “evidence” of wrongdoing on the general's computer that might have to be turned over to Jules Wilson's Comm Hawks, or even better, to the FBI, pointing to the possibility that Storey was a security risk or even a spy. If convicted he might even go to prison. But if the general did as he was told, the pension would continue “for life.”

  And as insurance, Korman leaned over the man's chair and hissed, “But listen to me, you jerk, if you mess with me, your life may not be that long. I'll agree to this deal, and you can keep your pension conditionally. For all intents and purposes, General, I'm buying your silence. Now you can run to somebody thinking that it's in the ‘best interests of the country’ to cause me grief. But remember, letting you keep your pension is costing me a lot more money than it would if I just arranged an ‘accident’ and had one of our armed security guards put a nine-millimeter hole in your head while ‘mistaking’ you as an intruder. So don't think of messing with me, or your ‘lifetime’ pension may be worthless. Your family will have nothing if the money stops. And you'll be in even worse shape!” Korman then launched into another tirade of curses as the general squirmed in his chair.

  “If I were you, General—if I were you, I'd take my retirement package and leave the country. You never know when some kind of ‘accident’ might happen. It might be better if you retired to someplace safe, don't you think?” Korman told General Storey. The words were quiet and his tone was even, but the real meaning of the threat was explicit.

  General Storey signed the letter and other documents and hurriedly left Korman's office. He stopped at his old office to pick up his things, but when he couldn't get in, he called his wife from his mobile phone and told her to come and pick him up at the main gate. And then he was gone.

  After the general left, Korman decided that Monday was too long to wait for a callback from Dr. Simon Harrod. He called the National Security Advisor's West Wing office and told Harrod's secretary, “It's extremely urgent that I speak with the National Security Advisor.”

  Less than two minutes later, the White House Situation Room senior watch officer called Korman's private line and said, “Sir, the National Security Advisor will be calling you in five minutes. Do you have an EncryptionLok-3?”

  “Of course,” snarled Korman. “I make 'em, don't I?”

  “Very well, sir. The National Security Advisor will be using encryption algorithm X-Ray Papa, Juliet, Two, Kilo, Seven, One, Lima, Niner. He should be calling in less than four minutes.” Then the line went dead.

  Korman reached into his briefcase, pulled out the EL-3 he always carried with him, and punched in the encryption code that had been read to him over the phone. He then disconnected the handset cord from the base of the phone on his desk, plugged it into the EL-3, and connected the other end of the device to the phone instrument. Two minutes later the phone rang. It was Simon Harrod.

  “Marty, it's Simon Harrod. My secretary called and told me that you have an international crisis or something. What's going on?”

  “Simon,” Korman said, “thank you for calling. I need to meet with you about something important. Can you fit me in later today?”

  “I'm on my way to Andrews Air Force Base—heading for Colorado as we speak, Marty. Can it wait?”

  “Are you going to the ‘Mountain’ by any chance?” Korman asked, referring to the North American Air Defense Command Center buried deep in the Cheyenne Mountains outside the city.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I'm meeting with a few Air Force generals to see why, among other things, NORAD is dragging its feet on converting their EncryptionLok-3s.
That ought to be of interest to you. Would you care to join me, in case they ask some technical questions?” Harrod proposed.

  “That's perfect. Stan Marat was planning on going there next week to build a fire under them. I'll call my pilot and have him file a flight plan to Colorado Springs instead of Washington. That ought to save a few gallons of aviation fuel,” Korman said with a smile. “What's your ETA?”

  “Now you're sounding like the brass hats,” Harrod laughed. “I should be at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs—it adjoins the municipal airport—by 2:00 P.M. their time. I guess the ‘stripes and stars set’ would call that ‘1400 local,’” he chuckled.

  “Yes, I know where it is. How should we connect? I expect it's too late for me to get clearances to land at Peterson, so I'll have our jet land at Colorado Springs Airport.”

  “Yes. Good. Have your pilot radio our plane and give your time of arrival. I'll have someone pick you up at the airport and bring you to me. We can have a late lunch and head for the Mountain.”

  “Do you mind if I bring Stan Marat with me?” asked Korman.

  “Not at all.”

  Korman hung up with a sense of euphoria. This was the break he had been waiting for. Harrod was clearly fully on board. The money Korman had been throwing around Washington was paying off. Harrod had already made it possible for SCTI to begin replacing the outmoded older EncryptionLok units with the new GPS—command/destruct model, the EL-3. Then Harrod had helped SCTI acquire contracts to produce them for the UN Security Council's military Special Force. As always, the contracts had avoided congressional scrutiny by simply keeping Senator James Waggoner “in the loop.”

  The UN deal was typical. When some bureaucrat at Commerce raised a stink about turning the devices over to the UN, Harrod and then Waggoner had landed on the man like a ton of bricks.

  “This is not a matter for the Commerce people,” Harrod had declared. “It's a national security matter.” He'd reasoned that with seventy-five hundred of the new EncryptionLok-3 devices, mainly to equip UN peacekeeping troops around the world, maintaining world order and peace was a higher law than some archaic commercial regulation. For good measure, Harrod told the secretary of commerce that he had discussed the matter with the President and he had concurred: they would permit the sale on grounds of national security. Two simple phone calls—one from Harrod and another from Waggoner—had made it possible to bypass any internal or external controls, including Congress and the Pentagon, which kept the sale a matter of utmost secrecy. If all went well, there would be another order of 7,500 devices for the rest of the UN force during the next year.

  And to show his gratitude, throughout 1994 Korman had kept the huge checks coming, and Harrod had promised to introduce SCTI to NATO leaders who would probably order (again, secretly) at least fifteen thousand total units. SCTI would be in business through 2006—giving Korman plenty of time to explore the possibility of selling some variation of the device to commercial civilian markets.

  But Korman wanted to get started on the other overseas markets now, and that's why he had run into trouble with Commerce. Storey had poisoned the well with his whistle-blowing. Korman was coming to realize that there were three types of people in Washington: (1) those who had come into town with the President and his administration; (2) people like Senator Waggoner who could be bought no matter who ran the White House; and (3) career government employees—some of whom apparently took their jobs very seriously. For this third group, even the hint of impropriety was the kiss of death to a project or politician.

  Korman buzzed Marat on the intercom and yelled, “Meet me at the car in two minutes; we're going on a little trip!” He pushed the Off button before Marat could answer.

  He then grabbed his briefcase and buzzed his driver to meet him in front of the building for a race up Jamboree Road to John Wayne Airport and into the SCTI hangar he had left less than twelve hours ago. An hour and twenty minutes later, Korman was airborne. He slept in the Gulfstream's comfortable leather seat all the way to Colorado. Marat spent the trip looking out the window, wondering how much longer all this could last.

  Municipal Airport

  ________________________________________

  Colorado Springs, CO

  Friday, 17 February 1995

  1400 Hours, Local

  Harrod's limo picked up Korman and Marat at a little after 2:00 P.M. local time and brought them to Peterson Air Force Base to the north of the commercial airport. Korman jumped from the limousine and trotted over to where Harrod was talking on his cell phone. The porcine National Security Advisor concluded his conversation, smiled, and extended his hand. “The President sends his best wishes,” he said to Korman.

  Korman laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said. “My old buddy … what'd he want … to get together for poker tomorrow night?”

  Harrod's face turned red and his expression was serious. “No, really. That was the President, and he recalls the time last fall when he invited you and Stan to the Oval Office to congratulate SCTI on delivery of the first three thousand EncryptionLok-3 devices to the UN.”

  “Well, I'll be … he really did remember me, eh?”

  “I'm sure that he did. If not, he sure remembers that check you wrote out to the President's reelection campaign on the spot. Yes, Marty, he remembers.”

  Korman remembered too. Afterward, in Harrod's office, the two SCTI executives had sat through one of Harrod's little speeches about how pleased he was that they were involved in the progress of something that he called “a new world order” and had said that the President and his administration would be remembered in history as the one that opened the door to a new era of world peace and harmony.

  “Well, the thing is, Dr. Harrod,” Korman had said softly, using the National Security Advisor's title rather than the more casual first-name basis, “Stan and I really appreciate how you broke the logjam at the Commerce Department. I mean, Stan tried pushing our request through last year and didn't get anywhere. They really held onto that foreign licensing policy that restricts us from selling high-tech computer stuff overseas. They told me that our technology fell into that category. But apparently you found a way around it.”

  “It's better if we don't talk about it,” Harrod had said. “Just let me take care of it. Let's just say that I've found a way to get around your Commerce Department problem, and leave it at that.”

  Now here they were with another problem at Commerce. Korman knew better than to try and make himself look good—Harrod would see through it.

  “I screwed up, Dr. Harrod,” Marat told him. “First, I got a call from Commerce that they were going to sic the FBI on us because we were trying to circumvent the export license on selling our devices overseas. I told you about that when you saved our butts with the UN orders. I suppose we got a little impatient trying to build something similar to the EncryptionLok-3 for the commercial market. We talked about that too.”

  “Yes … I recall that we did. What's wrong?”

  At this point Korman cut in. “One of my lobbyists suddenly became patriotic and felt that America needs to keep anything related to the EncryptionLok-3 solely for the military and not overseas sales, and especially not any commercial venues. I fired him this morning,” Korman added.

  Harrod laughed. “You always have been the impetuous one, Marty. I don't know how you and Stan ever teamed up. Opposites attract, I guess.”

  “Well, I suppose I am impetuous. But I want to be careful and not expose this administration to anything that might get fuzzy. I need your advice.”

  Harrod stretched his neck and moved his head around to relieve the tension. Then he spoke. “Marty, just leave it alone. Be patient. Give me time to grease the skids. Don't jump in and make things messy. Call your guy at Commerce and tell him you appreciate what he told you and that you think it's so important that you've gotta revisit your proposal—that you'll get back to him later when you feel it'll pass their scrutiny. Meanwhile, we try another avenue a
ltogether.”

  The three men went to the Officer's Mess on the base and were given the VIP treatment for lunch. During the meal, Korman and Harrod worked out a strategy for keeping the SCTI pipeline full of contracts and orders for the foreseeable future. Marat ate silently while the other two schemed. In less time than it took them to eat, they had a plan. And as evidence of their gratitude, Korman and SCTI would see to it that the President's reelection campaign fund would be kept healthy with some serious contributions.

  Andrews Air Force Base

  ________________________________________

  Washington, D.C.

  Friday, 17 February 1995

  2335 Hours, Local

  When the Special Air Mission Gulfstream, with UNITED STATES OF AMERICA emblazoned above its windows, taxied toward the VIP terminal at Andrews Air Force Base, it was dark and Harrod felt drained. He'd begun the day with two meetings and flew to Colorado for three more, including the one with Marty Korman and Stan Marat. When the plane stopped, Harrod stood up, put on his jacket, and grabbed his attaché case.

  The Air Force lieutenant who served as an aide to Harrod for the flight handed him his black cashmere topcoat and beaver hat, which he carried instead of wearing despite the damp chill in the air. He ambled clumsily down the steps of the plane's exit stairs and walked across the rain-dampened tarmac.

  As he strode into the building, his driver reached for Harrod's coat, hat, and attaché case. Harrod nodded to him but said nothing. He was glad that his White House limo was outside and ready—he hated waiting around at these military installations when his limo got stuck in rush-hour traffic or delayed in some other way.

  The driver led the way to the curb where the limo was parked, opened the door for Harrod, and closed the trunk since the National Security Advisor had no luggage. As Harrod was preparing to compress his enormous girth into the open rear door at curbside, he heard someone call his name. He turned to see General Dimitri Komulakov walking briskly toward the car. Harrod waited.