by Bradley West
“I don’t want anything to do with my father or his adventures. Take the chip and anything else you want. Just leave my mother and me in peace.”
Chan tentatively offered his hand in farewell, which she ignored. He said, “I will be in touch if we need anything else. In the meantime, call me if your father contacts you.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Mei Ling said with sarcasm they both could appreciate. She walked the officer to the front door, where she found her mother, apparently unaffected by the sleeping medication. She was haranguing two more officers about not taking their shoes off before they deigned to enter her home. She rounded on Chan when he plodded down the stairs, pointing at his street shoes and cursing at him in a flavor of Cantonese most often heard dockside. The three cops were glad to get away with only burning ears. She locked the door behind them and turned as if to speak. Mei Ling gave her a shush sign against pursed lips, and she went back to the downstairs spare bedroom where she’d been trying to sleep.
Mei Ling was pleased to see the police leave. She’d swapped chips in Juanilla’s bathroom, the place least likely to have a hidden camera. Now it seemed the police only had ears on their home and not eyes as well. Nevertheless, she’d wait until much later tonight to retrieve the original chip and hide it somewhere safe.
It would take the CIA at least a few days to access anything encrypted by Mark Watermen, starting with the chip gifted to her father last Christmas. Dad had passed it along to Mei Ling over the holidays, thinking the two of them would work together on this brainteaser. The goal was to break the encryption protecting the disk and read the files within. Mei Ling and Bert hated when their father and Watermen were online for hours working on code challenges, often missing their school and sport functions as a consequence. The puzzles bored Mei Ling and Bert refused to participate at all. Mei Ling had had so little interest in following up that she hadn’t even bothered to take the chip with her when she returned to California early in the new year. She was amazed the chip and greeting card were still in the desk after the search that followed Dad’s flight Wednesday night. Wouldn’t an envelope containing the name and Moscow return address of the infamous Mark Watermen merit a closer look? Pulling open the drawer and sliding the envelope under her shirt as she leaned over the keyboard to stare at the onscreen MMA fighters before racing downstairs had been simple. Later she would have to remove Watermen’s envelope from Juanilla’s bathroom wastebasket and burn it as well.
* * * * *
Acapulco team head Tim Weill sat in his office, door shut, with Buster Gregory. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Weill asked.
“There’s a complete mismatch between what the Acapulco worm is winnowing out of China’s coastal defense network and what our own satellites are showing. Or should I say, showed. It’s night now, and we’re looking at images that are a half day out of date.”
“Well, imagine in six hours when it’s light and we get the updated shots. The Chinese have been playing us. I already have a half-dozen “What the fuck?” emails in my inbox, the more polite ones asking us to double-check our sources.” Weill’s voice rose in frustration. “We don’t need to double-check anything. The data feeds haven’t changed one iota. What’s new is that we know we’ve been fed a pipeline of lies. The real question is why would China do this now? Why not keep deceiving us for the next few years? They were having a field day ever since they detected Acapulco and played it back against us.”
“The PLA-Navy invaded the Senkakus, islands with unproven hydrocarbon reserves and substantial propaganda value across East Asia. They’re trying to downplay their military preparedness in case the US hits back. So they feed us rubbish, all the while putting their defenses on maximum alert. That would be a pretty good reason to blow their own sting operation.”
“Maybe, but giving up the Acapulco deception means letting go of one of their intelligence jewels. The only justification would be if they thought our satellites were going to be offline a lot longer than eight hours. That means two things: that the DDOS didn’t work as planned and—”
“China was behind the attack.” Gregory finished Weill’s sentence.
“Let’s get this on paper. The bigwigs will want to review our logic train before they accept our conclusions. I’ll do the first draft while you have the team compare yesterday’s satellite images with the equivalent Acapulco data feeds. I’ll also give the other agencies a heads-up to disregard any Acapulco-sourced intel. We’ll need to keep disseminating it in case those channels are tapped, but put out a health warning in parallel.”
“On my way.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
HANGING FIRE
THURSDAY MARCH 13, REDDING, CALIFORNIA; FRIDAY MARCH 14, BEIJING, WESTERN AUSTRALIA
“The US is now at DEFCON 1. President Obama is on the phone for you, sir.” Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Yao Chanming, spoke these two sentences with a quaver in his voice. “Comrade Gao, also be aware that we’re detecting traffic in the NGA’s Asia network. The US has regained at least some image-processing capability. You must assume the Americans know that we, too, have our military on high alert.”
President Gao was confident. “Ah, but the Americans are still listening to Dolphin’s false promises. Obama will not start World War III over five rocks in the Near Sea. Our forces cannot surrender or withdraw from Diaoyutai Island now, irrespective of casualties or threats. The men must stand and fight. I will stall Obama. We need only five more hours for the aircraft carrier to be within range.”
“Should we send reinforcements? Within a day we can parachute in a division of Sword of Southern China Special Forces. However, you’ll have to authorize more ground support air missions if we hope to protect the troops.”
“Enough, General! We are baiting a trap, not risking our Navy and Air Force. Commit no further forces to the Diaoyus.” The president left to speak with his American counterpart.
* * * * *
Coulter wasn’t a beer drinker, but accepted a coldie as a prop. He stood with the campfire at his back and faced Wollam and Johnson. “Iran has been the world’s largest state sponsor of terrorism since the early 1980s. They get away with it because of oil. That’s particularly true with the Europeans, who aren’t above buying Iranian crude on the black market and shipping the odd machine tool or weapons cargo via a third country as a quid pro quo. Compounding matters, for the last thirty years, Iran has been trying to build nuclear weapons.” He paused and absentmindedly opened his beer, causing a pssst and a fluff of foam to appear. Johnson noted the cue to take a swig to keep that aerosol nectar from dribbling away. Coulter did nothing, even when the foam spilled over his fingers.
“In 2005 I was named associate deputy director of covert operations, or ADDCO. That’s a mouthful, but I ran black ops for the Agency. Stopping Iran from building an atom bomb was my number one priority. The Mossad approached me in 2007 with two requests. The Israelis wanted our biggest bunker-busting bomb, the Big BLU, capable of penetrating thirty feet of reinforced concrete. They also needed the Iraq airspace friend-or-foe call signs in order for their jets to overfly Iraq en route to Iran without being shot down. These requests received strong endorsements from my staff and me. The Israelis would take the heat in a region where they had few friends anyway. The US and our allies would benefit from the destruction of Iran’s bomb-making capability. The Middle East balance of power would shift decisively to Saudi Arabia and Israel.”
“I remember reading about this in Time and wondering why nothing ever happened,” Johnson said, finishing his beer and extracting the can from the cozy. He waved off Wollam’s pantomime offer of another.
Coulter stared at him in silhouette. “A small group of CIA and NSA cryptographers teamed up to champion an alternative, a software program that became Stuxnet. They successfully lobbied President W. Bush and convinced Mossad head Meir Dagan to sign Israel up. In under a year the NSA and Mossad team had deployed the world’s most sophisticate
d worm. The Iranians kept their nuclear program computer networks isolated. My people planted Stuxnet in the laptops of the Russian software contractors hired by Iran to maintain the computer network that controlled the uranium purification centrifuge cascades at Natanz. Stuxnet was so sophisticated that it sat idle unless it detected a particular type of Siemens programmable logic controller running a Microsoft Windows variant. Seen in tandem, these signals meant there was a chain of nuclear centrifuges within reach. That in turn activated the worm, slowing down or speeding up the centrifuges and sending reams of false data to the monitors.
“Eventually, Stuxnet reduced Iran’s annual production of enriched U-235 by thirty percent. This happened from mid-2009 through to Stuxnet’s discovery in late 2010. The CIA and NSA anti-bombing faction was right about how this would cripple Iran’s nuclear program. Where the doves were dead wrong was in thinking this delay would buy enough time to reach a diplomatic solution. If anything, Stuxnet hardened Iran’s anti-Western attitudes. They redoubled their efforts to build nuclear weapons and brought us to where we are today. Iran has several functional bombs. What we don’t know is whether they’ve mastered the nuclear trigger designs for warhead delivery via ballistic missiles. They’ve had almost five additional years to duplicate and harden research, production and assembly facilities. Everything in their weapons program is more heavily defended and more widely dispersed than before.
“But the US bunker-busting munitions technology has progressed, too. If the Israelis bomb Iran with our top ordnance, we can still win this war using only conventional weaponry. However, time is running out.
“In 2009 I was forced to retire because of my opposition to Stuxnet. I’ve been sitting on a mountaintop in Northern California contemplating a life’s work in the SEALs and intelligence, and nursing a growing ulcer as former colleagues and Iran-watchers report on recent developments. The pacifists and deniers fill up the media with their op-ed pieces. The same people who decry the existence of Guantanamo Bay overlook Iran’s horrible domestic human rights abuses.
“And now here we are in 2014. Iran runs over ten thousand centrifuges around the clock, each one purifying just a little more U-235 before passing the output over to the next centrifuge in a waterfall sequence. It’s a primitive approach, with the mainstay IR-1 centrifuge copied from a Pakistan version of a stolen Dutch machine. The Iranians declare their twenty-percent pure U-235 to international inspectors because that’s not weapons grade. What they hide is the further processing undertaken to produce the minimum twenty-five percent pure U-235 necessary for an atom bomb. With somewhere between fifteen and thirty pounds of U-235 needed per bomb, Iran has material for ten to twenty bombs: more than enough to destroy Israel. Even so, officials in Washington still tell me the evidence is mixed. They say there’s not enough proof that Iran has the means to deliver a bomb and that Israel’s air defenses would shoot down a suicide flight well before it reached their borders. Don’t even get me started on the shortcomings of the MM-104 Patriot system. Those Foggy Bottom stuffed shirts can write all the position papers they want, but there’s no antidote once Iran has nuclear-tipped ballistic missiles. That’s what we have to stop, and time has run out.”
Gesturing toward the interrogation cabin one hundred feet away, Coulter continued, “Proof of what Iran is doing is strapped to a bed in that hut.” His vigorous gesture sloshed beer out of the can. “The head of Iran’s nuclear weapons program is Dr. Fariborz Farrokhzad. He’s a nuclear physicist and a widower. His only daughter died in 1988 in a student protest in London following the accidental downing of that Iranian airliner by the USS Vincennes. He has mild diabetes and is in his early sixties, though he’s physically fit. He’s an ideologue and a sworn foe of the West.
“At a minimum, we need two things.” Coulter slowed his cadence and counted on the fingers of the hand holding the beer can. “One, confirmation as to which of the sites identified on my maps are central to Iran’s current program. And two, enough information about their nuclear weapons progress to convince those who author our National Intelligence Estimates that it’s still not too late to destroy it via conventional munitions. Better to fight the Iranians now than find ourselves in a nuclear showdown in three years’ time. Or worse, awake one morning to find that Israel no longer exists, or a suitcase nuke obliterated Beverly Hills.”
Johnson decided sympathy was in order. “Sounds like you’ve spent the better part of ten years on this operation.”
Wollam returned to the campfire and spoke up. “Oh, mate, you have no idea. Deputy Dog has been smarting about Iran for nigh on thirty years. Go ahead, Frank, tell us about how Iran-Contra set your career back a decade. ADDCO Coulter has had a special place in his heart for our Persian brothers for a long time.”
Coulter stretched and flexed his upper body. “I’m off to bed now and will set the alarm for 02:00 hours. Don’t start without me. I know what’s going on in several places on the marked map I passed across earlier today. What he has to say about these various sites will be very informative. For our Iranian friend’s sake, he’d better talk straight.”
Johnson said, “I could use a couple of hours of downtime as well.”
Wollam said, “Don’t you two sleeping beauties worry. I’ll sort out the midnight force-feeding and a sunrise wake-up call for our new friends up on the Mitchell Plateau. It seems that none other than Bob Nolan has hijacked the same Harcourt Aviation jet that put down here early Monday. Our lives just got simpler. Goodnight, all.”
* * * * *
“I don’t know what happens next any more than I did when we were on the way here,” Nolan said. Nishimoto and Jenkins dropped their jackets and took off their shoes. It was warm in the cabin despite the midnight hour.
“Why didn’t the F-18s force us down in Singapore?” Jenkins asked.
From the look on Nishimoto’s face, Nolan knew the captain had answered this one already. Everyone was blood-tired and bone-weary. Nolan reiterated his earlier theory. “Since the US let us fly past, either the CIA is involved at the highest levels and wants us here, where we can easily be made to disappear, or there are honest people in the Agency who are trying to find out what’s really happening. They let us go to track us to this spot, and then they’ll come in.”
“And how will we know which version is true?” Kaili asked.
“Tomorrow morning, if Australia Army, drug enforcement or regular police units arrive at Truscott, it will be good news. If it’s the interrogation center staff or their counterparts in the ASIS, or even the ASIO, that’s bad for me.”
Looking at Kaili, Nolan continued, “Regardless of who shows up, you claim diplomatic immunity and ask for the embassy. I assume your call earlier was along those lines.” Kaili remained silent, but flushed and looked away to give him a left profile and some curves.
“What in the hell is out here?” asked Nishimoto.
“I can tell you that in the thousands of pages of classified materials I’ve seen over thirty years, the two most secretive places in the CIA canon are the Midwest Depot and the Lizard Cage. The Midwest Depot holds the weapons trove that our covert community uses to fuel rebellions against adversaries. Those unmarked AK-47s, RPGs and 7.62 ammo boxes have to be stored somewhere, and that’s the Midwest Depot. Where it is, I don’t know, but I have my suspicions.
“The Lizard Cage dates from the late 1960s. It’s where the CIA processed the highest-value detainees captured as part of the Phoenix Program and its successor. The Lizard Cage officially closed when the US folded the Saigon tent in 1974. I joined the CIA in 1981 and had Top Secret clearance by 1985. Right away I saw references to the Lizard Cage, so it was still chugging along. Right now it may be the last operational post-9/11 off-the-books interrogation center. Maybe it was decommissioned officially, and recently resurrected by whoever ran the MH370 hijacking. The Lizard Cage is either underground here at Truscott Field, or it’s nearby.”
Nolan was so tired he’d developed mild vertigo. He focused on N
ishimoto’s face and soldiered on. “We landed over an hour ago, and no one knocked. I think the captain is right and it’s a short chopper flight from here. The Lizard Cage is where the person or people who came off MH370 are being questioned. Everyone else who was on that plane is dead.”
He shifted his view and held Nishimoto’s gaze. “If you didn’t land the G550 in Burma on Saturday night, where did you pick up the people and cargo?”
“At dusk Saturday night, we landed at Krabi island, just north of Phuket, Thailand. Around six on Sunday morning, a white Citation with a gold elephant’s head on the vertical stabilizer landed. Two men deplaned, one hooded and cuffed. The other was Chinese, wearing a suit. He led the other man onto my Gulfstream. We also transferred many millions of dollars in cash. We sat in Krabi for six hours while we waited for a flight plan. We fiddled our thumbs and finally received ATC clearance for takeoff. As you know, we landed here Sunday night. Armed men in uniform without insignia took the two passengers off the plane, and the money out of the luggage hold. That was quite a sight: clear poly bags full of bundles of hundred dollar bills. Less than a half-hour later, Darwin ATC gave us permission to take off even though we were on a manually-lit runway. I cleared a flight plan into Broome where we refueled and slept. On Tuesday, we flew to Dubai direct and were awaiting instructions when your Adam Birch charter came through. Wednesday we turned around and flew to Singapore, where we picked you two up at Seletar Airport.”
“And what was the name of your client for all this?” Nolan asked, heart aflutter.