Sea of Lies: An Espionage Thriller

by Bradley West

Jenkins and Nishimoto looked at one another. Jenkins shrugged. Nishimoto spoke. “Consultants International, which we know from past charters is a CIA front.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “What does that mean?” Kaili asked.

  “It means there’s likely to be trouble. That’s the same CIA proprietary that chartered the SS Bandana, the container ship that had the nuclear centrifuge aboard. It’s a black company to be certain. The only question is whether rogues or regular CIA staff run it. I’m guessing bandits.”

  He turned to Kaili and said, “If you can stand a night outside on your own, you should find a place to hide. An old building. Even an outcropping of rock. When it gets light, all hell will break loose. No one needs to know you’re here. And once whatever happens occurs, you can come back to the plane and either radio for help, or else have these two gentlemen fly you out.”

  “That is a kind offer, but I have to find out what happened to my countrymen and punish those responsible.”

  “Suit yourself. Let’s all try to get some sleep. I don’t think we need to take turns at sentry duty. We’ll be outgunned by anyone carrying more than a spear.”

  Jenkins piped up, “I’ll pull down bedding, blankets and pillows if anyone wants to join me stretched out in the aisle. I find it more comfortable than those seats.”

  “I doubt if I’ll be sleeping much,” Nolan said, “but if you have any water I’ll wash down whatever painkillers you have on board.” Before they turned the lights out, he passed one of his dark email addresses to Kaili. “If we get separated, email me here, and use Ocean of Deceit to place and interpret personals ads headlined ‘Numerology for Babylonians’ in the Asian Wall Street Journal. I don’t want to lose touch with you if we’re separated.”

  “We’re only as good as the promises we keep,” she said, staring into his eyes.

  * * * * *

  They were at Walgreens, with the Brown Turd (as McGirty had inelegantly dubbed Jen’s beater) parked out back under cover. Big Duck picked out the Miss Clairol Platinum Blond dye. The problem with being Eurasian, Bert mused, was that if you dyed your hair anything other than black, you looked like a Japanese Shinjuku punk. Fuck it. He’d shave his head. He’d been nearly bald in the Singapore Commandos, and was surprised to find that girls dug the look.

  Bert pushed a cart groaning under protein powder, amino acids and energy bars. A pair of dressmaker’s scissors, new tee shirts, electric hair clippers and basic toiletries rounded out the mix. It was barely nine, but already the temp was in the high seventies. He paid cash, and they carried their booty around the corner.

  While they were driving back to the Travelodge, Michael turned serious. “Once we’ve had our shakes and some sleep, we’ll need to put in the paperwork for the IDs. I’ll buy a phone with a decent camera for headshots, and you’ll need to score a laptop so I can log in to NuYu. What’s the plan, exactly? We’re going to drive up to this big swinging dick’s house, knock on the door, kidnap his family and then what? Call him collect on his cell and tell him to be nice to Bob? I thought you were pissed off at your dad anyway. So why don’t we head to Mexico instead? Or at least Salinas? Hide out and bank some NuYu cash until things settle down. Make a fresh start.”

  “Jesus Christ, Big Duck, all of that is giving me a headache. Slow down and take a breath. Let’s go over it one complaint at a time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  BLITZKRIEG

  FRIDAY MARCH 14, REDDING, CALIFORNIA; SATURDAY MARCH 15, EINME, BURMA; BEIJING; SINGAPORE

  When the gray SUV with the menacing antennae poking out of the roof pulled out of the clinic’s parking lot, the driver called a cell phone number, a small charge ignited and the can of gas blew out the back windows. The flames were above the roof before they drove out of sight, illuminating a dark sky. Teller’s remnant mercenary detail couldn’t understand why the clinic had been abandoned. Well, except for that old white man in the back room with the bandaged arm. Two in the head took care of him.

  They headed back to Rangoon for the last piece of unfinished business.

  * * * * *

  McGirty’s pillow hit Bert in the face, making his nose throb. “Goddamnit, what was that for?” young Nolan demanded. He sat up. Their room smelled of disinfectant and was pitch-black behind heavy curtains. McGirty swept those open, sunshine temporarily blinding them both.

  “It’s one in the afternoon. You told me to wake you up at one. Given how loud you were snoring, I’m surprised the people next door didn’t hammer on the wall.”

  “I’m tired. Let’s get some milk for our protein powder and figure out next steps.”

  “Well, Mr. FBI’s Most Wanted, let me start by suggesting that we cut and dye our hair—my hair, anyway, since you’re doing the full Dwayne Johnson—before we leave the room. As long as there’s someone new on reception when we leave, no one will notice we look different. Next we buy a notebook, phones and prepaid cards so we can get online. We grab groceries for lunch, and come back here for a photo session. I’ll get our details into NuYu, you can check your secret email and we can head on up the road to Weaverville.”

  “That’s a start, but we have to do some other things, too.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as buying clothes, hiking boots, break-in tools, and a kidnapping kit. Then figure out where the hell Coulter’s wife works and lives.”

  “A kidnapping kit? What, they sell them at Staples?

  Bert swung McGirty’s pillow and would have smashed his face had Big Duck not parried the blow with an upraised arm. Bert was out of bed and headed to the bathroom. He needed a shower and two shaves.

  * * * * *

  General Yao left the room where he’d just finished conferring with his fellow joint chiefs. President Gao had declined the offer to sit in and instead was in deep discussion with his flunky Yi Xiubao.

  Yao approached the two men less deferentially than usual, in keeping with the weight of his words. “Comrade President, we are now certain that the NGA image processing servers are back online. Though it’s still night in Asia, the US will be analyzing yesterday’s backlog of photos from a day of clear weather across China. That President Obama hasn’t called back suggests that the Americans are preparing to strike rather than negotiate further.”

  “General Yao, didn’t the Americans reduce their readiness level to DEFCON 2 as a consequence of my talk with Obama?”

  “Yes, Comrade, but that was based on your assurances that China’s military was on a peacetime footing. Those photographs prove otherwise. Even Dolphin’s falsified data feeds won’t deceive them this time.”

  “And what do you and the joint chiefs recommend, General?”

  “Don’t fire the anti-ship ballistic missiles, sir. Take the missiles off their launch sites immediately. Pull back the warships to no closer than one hundred twenty miles from the Diaoyus so there’s no possibility of accidental conflict with the US Navy. Ground our military aircraft save for surveillance and electronic warfare flights. Put our defenses on the highest level of alert to make certain there aren’t any strategic bombers flying on mainland targets.”

  He’d heard enough. “General, many times you’ve assured me that China’s air defenses were adequate to repel US heavy bombers. This is now no longer the case?”

  “It is the likely outcome, Mr. President, but it’s not the only possible outcome. Why don’t we ask the UN to get involved in mediating a peaceful solution to the Diaoyus incursion?”

  “Because I’m not interested in the Diaoyu Islands! I don’t care if Japan gets them back. In fact, I will give them back and let them pay the oil and gas exploration expenses. There’s plenty of time to take these islands again in the future if there are meaningful reserves. The US Pacific Fleet must be forced to withdraw from China’s coastal zones. The countries of East Asia—starting with Japan—must acknowledge China as the single superpower in the Pacific. That is what Polar Bear is all about. And now, on the cusp of success, yo
u lose your nerve? I want your resignation! You disgust me.”

  Turning to address the other joint chiefs within earshot, the president continued, “There’s no room for doubters or the faint-hearted. Either execute your orders or resign, but get out of my sight. There’s work to be done.” The military brass fled, led by General Yao. Good riddance to all, Gao thought.

  A colonel scurried up to Yi and handed him a slip of paper. Yi sidled over to Gao, head bent in supplication. “Comrade President, good news. The George Washington is within reach of our extended-range DF-21D anti-ship ballistic missiles. However, it is already taking evasive maneuvers and will prove difficult to hit.”

  “Target all three missiles on the carrier and fire them in fifteen minutes. Get Admiral Wang in here. He’s been promoted to acting chief of staff, and I want his sign-off on the launches.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” The colonel turned and strode away.

  Gao turned to Yi, who was reading a new piece of paper provided by a civilian he didn’t recognize. “What, tongue-tied, are we?” the president asked his subordinate.

  Yi looked up, ashen. “US cruise missiles and ASBMs have destroyed or damaged seven vessels in our invasion fleet. Over seventy percent of coastal defense radars and missile sites have been destroyed. Operational radars and satellites are tracking a mixture of planes and missiles inbound into China’s airspace. The Americans must have jammed our weapons control radars, as they aren’t locking on targets. Our forces are being destroyed where they sit.”

  Gao smiled between clenched teeth. “Good. China has been provoked! Launch the ASBMs immediately. Reconvene the joint chiefs. Notify the Politburo Standing Committee that we meet in twenty minutes.”

  “What about our nuclear preparedness status?” Yi Xiubao asked.

  “Leave it as it is!” snapped the president. “If we raise the alert level or activate our strategic bombers, submarines or ICBMs, the Americans may well destroy us all. Authorize the use of conventional weapons in self-defense, nothing more.”

  The same colonel came back as Gao Xiang digested the last dollop of ill tidings. “Mr. President, we need to move you to a more secure location. There’s a hardened bunker and command center in the basement. Could you come this way, please?”

  “Yes, in a moment. Give me a damage assessment once our missiles strike the imperialist navy.”

  Yi Xiubao looked at the third piece of paper he’d received from a military underling in as many minutes. Smart bombs and cruise missiles had destroyed the ASBMs before they could be launched. The strategic PLA-Navy’s Yalong Bay base on Hainan Island was under attack by supersonic bombers. The report listed high casualties and major losses of ships, planes and lives. The American bombers and ships appeared to be largely unscathed.

  The president’s personal secretary ran up. “Where is the president? Obama is calling him. The American president is calling!” Yi pointed to the elevator bank where a group of sentries had just seen Comrade Gao safely inside. She sprinted toward them, calling out.

  Yi crumpled the printout and dropped it into his pocket. He had to a find a pen and paper somewhere. There was a letter to write.

  * * * * *

  Rear Admiral Cochran’s smile lit a tense room. “Gentlemen! Effective immediately, China and the United States have halted hostilities. I repeat, there is a global ceasefire in place. Please make certain that all assets within your purview acknowledge. Stay on top of those screens! As our late, great President Reagan once said, ‘Trust, but verify.’ Captain Howard, please update your tally of US and allied losses. I want a preliminary count in twenty minutes. We are now at DEFCON 3.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” said Howard.

  The room was awash in fist bumps and high fives. With the crisis in abeyance, someone took CNN off mute. Howard heard the anchor intone that China had agreed to a UN-supervised orderly and peaceful withdrawal from the Senkakus. Furthermore, China had accepted Japan’s sovereignty over the islands and would submit to binding arbitration over the appropriate level of reparations owed to Japan. The voice droned over footage of albatrosses nesting on barren volcanic rocks along a wave-battered shore.

  Howard’s tally to date was scant, with Japan losing three fighters and suffering three damaged in the defense of Uotsuri Jima, plus two US aircraft lost. The US had won a victory in record time, almost bloodlessly. The whole episode had a surreal feeling. After all, China wasn’t Iraq. And while everyone on Cochran’s staff had expected the US to prevail, in retrospect it seemed too easy.

  One of the young Spec 4s chortled, “We opened a can of whup-ass!” Whup-ass, indeed, thought Howard. China’s coastal defenses and forces were in ruins with casualties surely in the thousands, and damage into the hundreds of millions. Even in this hour of jubilation, he couldn’t help asking himself, “Are we really this good?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  MAC ATTACK

  FRIDAY MARCH 14, US WEST COAST; SATURDAY MARCH 15, ADMIRALTY GULF, WESTERN AUSTRALIA; SINGAPORE

  Farrokhzad already despised the Americans and Israelis; he added Australians to the list. Sleep deprivation, bright lights and loud noises had been so intermingled with the questions of the past four days that he no longer remembered what he’d told them, versus what he’d shouted only in his mind while his body resisted. Johnson recognized the type. The way to change the conversation from a war of attrition to something more mutually accommodative typically required a swift, brutal act. Maybe a smashed finger or a clipped toe would bring the subject’s mind more sharply into focus. Then, after some time to reflect and reorder one’s life priorities, Johnson would start by asking straightforward questions. The subject either cooperated, or he started losing body parts at a brisk rate.

  Before Johnson arrived, the amateur interrogator who preceded him had gleaned nothing of value save confirmation that the Iranian could both understand and speak English. Farrokhzad radiated defiance, and they had zero leverage: no family, no close friends, and no career prospects if there wasn’t a nuclear program to go home to. The scientist wanted to die in the interrogation shed and had been doing his best to goad them into killing him. Since the Australians weren’t the murdering types, they’d asked for help, and Coulter tapped his old boy network for recommendations. Johnson was the fruit of these efforts.

  To hell with hacking off a finger, thought Johnson. From that look of pure contempt he’s giving me, there’s nothing he’d like more than to bleed out from an ill-executed amputation. Instead, Johnson decided to inject five cc’s of Sodium Pentothal to see if a dose of old-fashioned truth serum might induce more cooperation. Otherwise, it was back to Plan A, with a blowtorch and power drill already on display.

  Coulter was a man in a hurry. Johnson wouldn’t mind leaving the Eco-Camp sooner rather than later, too. He’d been in secret CIA camps before—hell, he was living in one right now at Forward Operating Base Chapman outside Khost—and this one felt dodgy. There weren’t enough people on-site. There was no perimeter fence. The guards had the look of irregulars. Coulter and Wollam were retirees for God’s sake. Most of the buildings and physical plant were either out of commission or decrepit. Essentially it was a rundown fishing camp that someone was borrowing for a couple of weeks in the off-season. It couldn’t be a Company-sanctioned interrogation center when there was a gigantic crocodile in a cage mauling a dead cow, could it?

  “OK, Doctor. Time for a vitamin shot,” he said in his best soap opera voice. Farrokhzad’s eyes bulged and his muscles tensed, but he said nothing as Johnson found the vein inside his elbow and depressed the plunger. He was thankful for the leather band binding the Iranian’s neck to the back of the chair, as that crazy fucker would have bitten him rather than just spit in his face. Stay in this business long enough, and you can spot them across the room. The man was a hater through and through.

  The syringe empty, Johnson withdrew it and didn’t bother applying an alcohol swab. Farrokhzad’s life expectancy right now was shorter than an Ebola patie
nt’s in a Liberia refugee camp. The scientist slumped forward, unconscious.

  Johnson turned to a guard and said, “Come get me once he wakes up. And turn off the camcorder. Nothing will happen here for at least an hour.”

  Time for another nap. He hoped the mainlander Jack Wong wasn’t snoring like before. Wong was some kind of weirdo as well, having already demanded to be present when and if Johnson burned, electrocuted or cut open the Iranian. Wong apparently thought Johnson was a medieval torturer.

  * * * * *

  Every time the green light flashed and the buzzer sounded, LT Ian “Macca” McCullough got a rush, despite having logged over a thousand jumps. This one differed on several counts, however. A night combat High Altitude High Opening operation from almost thirty-three thousand feet meant they’d be on oxygen for two-thirds of the descent. His job was to lead a force of seven others and free a hijacked civilian jet. The mission was right at the limits of his men’s training and the bounds of the possible. And they were attempting this with scarcely three hours of planning and preparation.

  McCullough and his men were SAS Regiment, Australia flavor. Specifically, they were assigned to the Tactical Assault Group (West) based in Perth. As Macca’s crew had undergone intensive anti-hijacking training at the Yanks’ Delta Force center in North Carolina, they were the first ones onto the C-130J Hercules when the call came in earlier that night. He and his men had fidgeted and checked gear for the past five hours as the four-engine behemoth lumbered fifteen hundred miles north and positioned the jumpers fifteen miles from where the hijacker had forced down the Gulfstream 550 on the Mitchell Plateau.

  Macca’s chute opened cleanly with a satisfactory jolt and the harness responded properly to his tugs. A ninety-pound Bergen dangled fourteen feet below his shoes on a quick-release carabiner attached to his harness. It would take them nearly an hour under their customized parachutes to glide north to Truscott Field. They’d use the time to tighten up the TAG squad’s formation. The operation came into being with urgency last night. Only now could he reflect, late in the day given that he was twenty-two thousand feet up with an automatic weapon strapped to his chest and breathing through a facemask. The operation struck him as overkill with only the one hijacker and three hostages: a foreign intelligence officer and two pilots. A pair of snipers inserted a mile away should be able to end it by breakfast. Instead, there were eight of them with the same orders to shoot Robert Nolan on sight.