by Doug Norton
Hendricks’ eyes narrowed and his lips became a thin line as he thought about it. Perfect, omniscient intelligence is the silver bullet that politicians invoke to avoid making hard choices. If the intelligence community is performing properly, they say, it will tell us who’s going to attack, where they will strike, when, how, and also why. Each time the world demonstrates that intelligence is never perfect, politicians express shock and disappointment, restructure intelligence organizations, hand out some extra bucks for “technology enhancement,” and announce that they have solved the problem, so long as the intelligence Neanderthals don’t slouch back into their old ways.
Director Hendricks gave it no more than a month before he would be seated before congressional committees, getting his ritual comeuppance, and making his ritual apologies. He knew he was safe; he was too far from the desks where raw intel was handled and judgments made. But this time, he figured, he’d have to throw some of the poor bastards who actually did that under the bus. Then Scott Hitzleberger, CIA Director, would probably fall on his sword to protect them and he’d have to go, too.
Glancing at a clock, Hendricks realized he just had time to pee before taking the chopper to the president’s bunker. He logged off and headed for the bathroom, popping another antacid tablet.
Rick Martin, he thought, smart, likeable, articulate, but I doubt he knows who he is, really. Like another president who faced an existential crisis right away, Jack Kennedy, he’s never been tested big time. Kennedy at least had the PT-109 experience. Rick Martin’s never done anything tougher than a presidential campaign, not that those are easy, but they’re about the candidate, how much risk he’ll take, what he can endure and put his family through, and what he’s willing to do to win. Being president of the United States is about three hundred million people and the nation whose actions or inactions set the boundaries of what’s possible in a lot of the world.
And Paternity! What’s he gonna do with the evidence, compelling but not undeniable, not a smoking gun? He thought about their first discussion, on Martin’s third day in office.
At his request, he and the president had had their first meeting not in the Oval Office, but in the White House SCIF, the Special Compartmented Intelligence Facility. Called “the skif,” it was literally a room within a room, as secure as unlimited funds and technology could make it. The Oval Office was equally secure, but the DNI didn’t control it, or the records of access to it, or the microphones that recorded conversations within it. The skif, however, was under his control. Also, he knew the value of theater when briefing a new president.
“Mr. President, I asked for this meeting with you alone, and here, to tell you about the most closely held intelligence asset this country possesses. The code word for it, which is itself top secret, is Paternity.”
The president made a “go on” gesture with one hand and sat expressionless, signaling, Hendricks supposed, that this president’s trust was not a given. Of course, that was always so with intelligence. Hendricks sighed inside and continued.
“Mr. President, Paternity refers to the scientific capability we have to determine the origin, the paternity one might say, of plutonium and highly enriched uranium, called HEU. By origin, I mean at least the country of its manufacture and in many cases the specific facility where the material was produced. We’re able to do this by analysis of the HEU or the plutonium itself and by analysis of fallout particles in the atmosphere and the ground if it has exploded. This scientific capability has a number of potentially important applications, as I’m sure you will appreciate.”
After pretending a bit too obviously to reflect, Martin said, “And one of those applications would be, if a nuclear weapon was detonated anonymously in this country, we could figure out who had made it.”
Ignoring Martin’s sarcasm but noting his vanity, Hendricks replied, “Indeed we could, Mr. President! And also if, as is to be hoped, we intercepted a bomb before it was detonated, for example by detecting it in a radiation portal scanner.”
“Tell me something about it. How did we get this capability, how certain are you of the accuracy . . . and why keep it secret? It looks like a deterrent to me.”
“It’s a long story, Mr. President, which I will condense severely at this telling. But, as to the last of your questions, why is it that we don’t we announce Paternity as a deterrent measure? Because it would reveal extremely sensitive intelligence sources and methods and because, if attention is directed to it, certain states will attempt, possibly successfully, to develop countermeasures. Better to keep this rabbit in our hat until we need it. That, sir, has been the conclusion of every president since Jimmy Carter began the program, which is called the Paternity Project.”
“Mmmph! Well, this president may change that”
When Hendricks didn’t react, Martin said, “Go on.”
“When the Pakistanis tested six nukes in 1998, samples of the gasses that escaped from underground showed that most of the bombs used HEU from the Pakistani facility at Kahuta, but at least one of them used HEU from a Chinese enrichment facility. We know through investigation of A. Q. Khan’s nuclear black market operation that the Pak bomb program had, indeed, obtained HEU from the Chinese.
“In 2006 and 2009, when the North Koreans tested plutonium weapons, also underground, analyses showed the plutonium was reprocessed at Yongbyon, something that the North Koreans publicly confirmed.”
At this, he paused briefly before adding, with emphasis, “Paternity works, Mr. President!”
After a short silence, Martin said, “Who in the Rogers administration knew about Paternity?”
“Mr. President, since 1976 only a small group of intelligence people have known about Paternity in order to keep the program ready. Typically, presidents have directed that their national security advisor, secretary of defense, chairman of the JCS, and heads of the House and Senate select intelligence committees be kept in the loop.
“There’ve been variations: In 1998, President Clinton had Secretary of State Albright brought in so she could confront the Chinese ambassador about their assistance to Pakistan’s nuclear bomb program. In Bush Two, no surprise, Vice President Cheney was in the program.
“In sum, it has been a tight circle—and with good reason. Since Nine-eleven, there have been occasional news articles suggesting that governments are trying to develop some capacity to determine the origin of nuclear materials. As a result of your predecessors’ caution, there has never been even a hint about Paternity.”
“You just said that Albright told the Chinese about Paternity—who knows who they’ve told?”
“That’s so, Mr. President, but it hasn’t been in their interest to reveal it. One doubts that this is an episode of which they are particularly proud. The Paks didn’t ask permission before using the HEU in a test or even give the Chinese a heads-up. When Secretary Albright gave their ambassador a dressing-down, it caught the Chinese flat-footed. They don’t like that sort of thing.”
Martin thought for a moment. “Mac and the committee chairs already know—right?”
Hendricks nodded.
“Then for now brief only Eric and John. I’ll bring Bruce in if he needs to get involved.”
Hendricks knew the vice president, Bruce Griffith, would be upset if he learned of this decision because he’d see being in the program as a sign of prestige. It was revealing that Martin was cutting him out—an observation he filed away.
“Mr. President, a few minutes ago I mentioned A. Q. Khan, known as the father of the Muslim bomb.”
Martin nodded.
“Dr. Khan didn’t only enable Pakistan to go nuclear. We’ve followed his footprints through the clandestine nuclear weapon programs of North Korea, Libya, Iran, Iraq, and South Africa. We suspect al-Qaeda approached him. Kahn probably rebuffed al-Qaeda, but he did sell uranium enrichment technology, equipment, and probably warhead plans—Chinese, we think—to those countries. He may also have sold weapons-grade uranium and plutonium to them
or others. Truth be told, we just don’t know all his customers, despite the fact that his activities were revealed and—probably—halted in 2004.
Hendricks flicked a bit of lint from the left sleeve of his dark suit, somehow subtly linking that gesture to his words, “The Khan connection is just a footnote, but this seemed a good time to mention it.”
Chapter 5
Crisp in a navy suit, President Martin looked into the faces of the bedraggled White House press corps, crowded and hot in an underground concrete box, overflowing into a mildew-speckled corridor. Excitement, fear, anger, exhaustion, and a sour odor infused the humid air.
Sam thinks it’s too soon for a press conference, Rick thought, too risky because we know almost nothing, but dammit, I need to engage them. It’s bad enough I’m in this hole in the ground. I can’t hide!
I might as well begin with one who’ll probably be reasonable.
“Helen?”
“Mr. President, take us inside your head for a moment. What are you feeling, what are your priorities, how are you handling this shock yourself?”
“Helen, I’m saddened beyond words by this tragic event. Ella and I have seen the same pictures most Americans have on television and the Internet. It’s heartbreaking—and also infuriating! As I told the nation last night, this country is going to support the victims, rebuild, deal with the killers, and take steps to keep this from happening again, not only to Americans, but to any people!”
The instant he stopped speaking shouts filled the air. He picked a question that served his purpose, pointing to a man in jeans and a wrinkled pink oxford, sleeves rolled up to forearms.
“Mr. President, if it was al-Qaeda do you believe they are capable of having made that bomb, or did some country sell it to them?”
Rick considered Paternity and the probability that it would soon provide an answer. “I’m not an expert in this, but while I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that al-Qaeda has the expertise to build such a bomb, I think the odds are they acquired it, most likely by theft, but perhaps with the knowledge of a nuclear-armed country.”
As reporters scribbled, a booming, angry voice cut through the clamor that followed his answer. “Mr. President, your administration failed to protect the American people!”
Shifting his gaze to the rear where a damp stain marked the wall, the president saw a man whose name he didn’t recall. Well, it didn’t take long to get to that, he thought, and said, “Please repeat your question.”
“Mr. President, the Martin administration failed to protect the American people from this attack, despite years of warning that terrorists could get a nuke. Why? What went wrong?”
Several journalists exchanged knowing glances.
He and Sam had crafted his answer, but Martin paused as if considering before saying, “Yes, the government did fail to protect the American people. Today the government is led by my administration, and having been president of the United States since January I accept responsibility.”
Several shouted questions were follow-ups, but he didn’t want to go there and instead answered a sharp-faced woman who said, “What about our nuclear forces—have you put them on high alert?”
“I don’t think our nuclear-armed subs, bombers, and missiles are the most important part of our response right now. As a precaution we have put our military, including nuclear forces, on higher alert. But it’s really others—the police, the FBI, Customs and Border Protection, the National Guard—that are the most important at this point.”
“Mr. President, are you saying that nuclear deterrence has failed?” Rick knew the answer was yes, but he wasn’t going there until he had answers for the follow-up questions, so he was glad to hear others shouting about Las Vegas. Pointing to one of them, Martin said “I think you asked me about Las Vegas, but I didn’t hear your question clearly.”
“Mr. President, Americans want to know how many people have been killed and injured and what’s being done right now to help the victims and their families.”
“I’m sure they do. Right now we don’t know the numbers, although they are certainly in the hundreds of thousands. Greater Las Vegas has—had—a population of about a million. The scale of this attack, plus the danger to rescuers from radioactivity, is delaying our efforts to identify or even count the dead and assist the injured. FEMA, with the strong assistance of the Nevada National Guard and surviving Las Vegas first responders, has established an assistance perimeter around the city. Survivors who are able to reach this perimeter are decontaminated and given medical treatment and other assistance. Our military is helping, too; evacuation by C-17 cargo planes has begun.
“As we all are horribly aware, there are injured people in the high-radiation area, the no-go zone, who are unable to walk out. Rescue personnel can’t reach them because radiation would be fatal to them, as it will soon be to those survivors. They will inevitably die, either from their burns and wounds, or from radiation poisoning. To their great credit, rescuers—particularly helicopter crews—have volunteered to enter the no-go zone anyway. But the hard truth is that wouldn’t save a single victim and would not only cost their families the lives of those brave men and women, it would cost the country their desperately needed skills.”
Rick thought of his debate with Sam Yu over whether to suppress the television helicopter video of mutilated bodies and dying survivors in the no-go zone. He had decided not to suppress it, partly because it simply couldn’t be stopped—images filled the Internet—and partly because it was the new reality that the country needed to absorb.
Lights dimmed to a yellowish hue, then returned to normal. Martin flung a quip, reminding them that he had proposed legislation to modernize the nation’s power grid. It fell flat. Without the amenities of the White House press room, or even chairs, the correspondents were becoming a scrum. As Rick watched, one who crouched to retrieve her pen nearly became road kill.
Rick considered the shouts, searching for just the right question. He heard it: “Mr. President, what’s the impact of this on the lives of Americans?”
Glad that he recognized the questioner, Martin said, “James, I think it will take some time before we know the full impact on life in America. But I believe that as we deal with this, we must use methods within the bounds of what is best about our country. We will not become a closed and fearful society. We will not repeat mistaken policies, such as the internment of Japanese Americans after Pearl Harbor. We—“
Utter blackness.
The journalists, sweaty and claustrophobic, alerted and started like a herd of antelope scenting a predator. When someone yelled, “Smoke!” they were off, shoving and elbowing toward the only door, dimly lit by an emergency light.
Wilson and another agent grabbed Martin by his elbows, hustled him to a corner, then stood in front of him, weapons drawn. Things were happening so fast that Martin wasn’t thinking, only reacting. That suited Wilson just fine, as he commanded over his shoulder, “Sit on the floor, Mr. President!”
Chapter 6
Pyongyang, North Korea (DPRK)—Twelve Months Previously.
The Dear Leader lit up and paced his office. The Arabs—they were back again, he thought. For years they had sought radioactive materials, any materials, from him. After he detonated a fission bomb inside a mountain, announcing his power to the world, they began asking for a complete weapon. For years he sent them away, but they kept coming back, each time honoring him more and offering more cash for the glorious future of Korea. And this time . . .
Kim knew he possessed wisdom far above others. He could solve any problem. He offered solutions freely to his countrymen, in farming, in fishing, in steel-making, in education, giving them on-the-spot guidance. He was so often disappointed that those to whom he gave his guidance were unable to carry it out. Despite that, he continued his patient teaching and kind leadership, as had his father, Kim il-Sung.
Kim crushed his cigarette and lit another.
Of all his talents, he was proudes
t of his skill as a media producer. Encouraged by his father, he had developed North Korea’s filmmaking resources—the only thing of his the man hadn’t denigrated. He spent thousands of hours studying the world’s best films, even learning English and French the better to dissect the filmmaker’s craft. He wrote, directed, and produced films and entered international competitions. When he needed skills lacking among his dear people, he ordered those possessing them kidnapped, then detained and exploited them at Choson Studios, which he bankrolled with gold from one of his mines.
Kim’s pacing carried him near the closed door. “Come!” he said in a firm voice. Immediately a uniformed steward entered. The young man stood about eight inches taller than Kim, with an athletic build. Like all North Koreans, he wore a button displaying Kim’s photo, as he had since early childhood.
“Yes, Dear Leader?”
“Tea!” The man vanished.
As the Dear Leader resumed pacing, his mind lingered on the robust young man. What a lie—the story spread by Americans and South Koreans that my people are malnourished and stunted from decades of near starvation! It was an attack on him. It was another way they mocked and underestimated him. He had shown them, when he tested his nuclear bombs and when he fired his missiles across Japan into the Pacific. Yet, still they refused to acknowledge his wisdom and power. Still they oppressed and threatened his people, who loved him and depended on him. Kim thought of that as his own failure and felt ashamed, then angry.
Through the haze of his anger, Kim sensed the return of the steward. He turned and pointed. After taking a sip, the young man put the cup on a nearby table. He stood next to it, eyes fixed on the wall, as Kim paced and smoked. After about a minute Kim looked intently at him, then dismissed him with a flick of his hand.
Kim continued pacing, now drinking tea. The Americans were such fools in mistaking my patience and tenderness toward my people for weakness and irresolution. No, I am strong, Kim thought, knowing it was given to him to see what others did not.