by Bradley West
He used the GPS and prevailing winds to silently and invisibly direct their path to the target LZ three miles from the downed plane. He checked the altimeter again and saw that they were halfway to the ground. He gave his right rigging line another tug to put him back on course. No sound issued through his comms earpiece, meaning that all was well above and behind where the team parasailed in loose formation. The full moon and myriad stars glittered in silence. Quiet was good, Macca knew. Bad things happened when there were five blokes all talking at once while gunfire and explosions rang in the background.
Meanwhile, three of the Regiment’s Black Hawk MH-60K Night Stalker helicopters with another two dozen men from TAG were two hours behind them. Thirty-two of the SAS Regiment’s best and three Black Hawks just to take down one man? Nolan must be a hard bastard.
* * * * *
FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Seattle office Myron Fillmore smiled an hour ago when he first heard the news. The Bureau, assisted by the Washington Highway Patrol, found the Silverado abandoned outside Appleton, WA. McGirty’s vehicle was covered in freshly cut brush, parked on a country lane not far from the mighty Columbia River. A visit to the family home of one of Nolan’s former girlfriends, Jennifer Ryneburg, revealed that she drove off Thursday night on short notice and hadn’t been seen since. Her parents were frantic with worry. The FBI and police now had an APB out on the vehicle, a brown 2005 Honda Accord. Officially Jennifer was a potential kidnap victim, but law enforcement officers unofficially suspected that she was aiding the felons and perhaps even traveling with them.
* * * * *
Coulter walked out of the interrogation shed, steadied himself with a palm against the corrugated metal wall and vomited. Johnson wasn’t running an interrogation; he was operating an abattoir. Coulter wiped the spittle with the back of a hand that clutched blood-smeared maps with the key facilities comprising Iran’s nuclear arms program now identified. Through the walls he heard a drill, followed by a bloodcurdling scream. He shuddered and shuffled away to find something to rinse his mouth.
Wollam didn’t like the interrogation shed any more than Coulter, but at least he had the sense to stay away. He loitered outside his cabin with their pilot, flicking through a month-old news weekly. Wollam flashed his light at Coulter to beckon him over. Handing him a bottle of water, he said, “It’ll be light in thirty minutes. For Andy’s benefit, tell me again how you want to play it.”
“Andy flies you and two guards up to Truscott. Stay off the radio. Put the helicopter down behind the plane. Walk over unarmed and alone, but covered by the guards. Tell whoever comes out that you have a message for Bob Nolan’s ears only. He’ll have to step down. You aren’t coming aboard. Nolan will do it. You offer him a helicopter ride to meet someone who will answer all his questions, but don’t mention me by name.”
“Why will Nolan bite?”
“His need to know is his fatal flaw.”
The sound of more power tools punctured the predawn. Wollam thought he heard an animal cry underneath the burr and whine. He turned around and went inside to change.
* * * * *
“So this is it, the bright lights of the big city of Weaverville,” deadpanned Big Duck. They pulled into the Victorian Inn’s parking lot off Main Street.
Bert was all business. “Park at the back, register us in a quiet and back-facing room, unload and then we’ll ask around. There must be someone in town who knows the directions to Coulter’s house,” Bert said.
“If I didn’t tell you this before, you look sexy bald.”
“If I didn’t tell you this before, you look like a blond fag.”
“I still don’t know why we’re risking twenty more years in prison for kidnapping a family to maybe save your dad. Your sister just emailed to remind you that your dad is a no-good, cheating sonofabitch who emptied your parents’ retirement account, was almost blown up in Sri Lanka—where Mark Watermen was killed —and has now flown to Australia on a chartered jet to face down this CIA black ops mastermind. Meanwhile, the CIA, KGB, China’s secret police and everyone else in the world are after him. Doesn’t this all sound a little, well, exaggerated?”
“The Russians rebadged the domestic arm of the KGB as the FSB, the Federal Security Service, you dumbass.”
“Same difference.”
“Look, my dad’s an asshole if he cheated on Mom again, but she treats him like a leper, so it’s not like he’s one hundred percent to blame. He spent a lot of time with Mei Ling and me growing up, despite what my sister might say. Dad’s smart as hell and tries to do the right thing, even if it’s unpopular. This is what landed him in all this trouble. It looks like it’s cost him his career, his pension, and his savings. I will help if I can, but we won’t be stupid, either. If there are police or guards, we won’t do anything tonight. If we take Coulter’s family, we have collateral to swap for my dad. And if he’s free, he’ll solve the MH370 disappearance and maybe save a bunch of lives. If you want out, I understand.”
“No, I told you I was in. I needed to know that you’re committed. Let’s just not get shot for the wrong reasons.”
“You just check in at the front desk. I'll wait here. When we get into our room, I’ll show you how to work an automatic. If anyone’s going to get shot, it will be the other guys.”
* * * * *
The TAG unit low-crawled through the scant cover until they were seven hundred fifty yards from the hijacked aircraft. The sniper team pulled out their ghillie suits and slipped them on. Others helped them apply camouflage paint and rub dirt on their suits and exposed skin while Macca considered the options.
The jet still wasn’t visible to the naked eye but stood out like a dog’s bollocks viewed through their AN/PVS-7 goggles. The sound of an inbound helo dropped them to prone positions, weapons at the ready.
“Chonga! Get on the comms and see who the fuck that is,” Macca hissed. Ten seconds later, Corporal Chong confirmed that it wasn’t one of their own. The Black Hawks were in the air, but still over two hundred klicks away.
Macca was the first in his family to graduate from college and the fourth generation to serve in the military. His tunic hid a full sleeve of tattoos etched into his muscular arms. The SAS Regiment and Macca went together like Emu Export and West Coast Eagles Aussie rules football.
“Stand down, men!” he rasped in a working-class accent. “It’s a civilian jet helo, a tourist job. Lie low, take a few pictures and see what happens.”
* * * * *
FSB Director of Surveillance Anatoly Chumakov had seen better days. His thoughts were scrambled once he regained consciousness. He couldn’t see, as his uninjured eye was wrapped in bandages that cushioned his empty left socket. He could hear people around him speaking in English. He didn’t remember anything after the meeting at the Colombo Racquets Club . . . wait . . . the walk toward the beach . . . shooting . . . an explosion . . . Nolan. Nolan! He tried to shout that accursed name, but the breathing tube in his throat choked him.
He felt a friendly hand on his shoulder. In Russian, he heard Ustinov’s voice say, “Comrade Chumakov. You were wounded by a grenade. You’re in a hospital in Singapore where you underwent five hours of brain surgery. You lost an eye, but should recover fully otherwise. You must stay calm. I’ll be by your side.”
With supreme effort, Chumakov managed to utter, “’Olan, ’olan!”
“Yes, Director. Nolan is the one. Do not worry. I will find him for you.”
* * * * *
Wollam had to hand it to Coulter. No sooner had Wollam ducked under the spinning blades and walked toward the jet than the door opened and a man and a woman descended the steps. Andy kept the Bell Ranger’s engine running. The two ex-ASIS shooters provided cover.
Wollam surmised he was in the presence of his target. “Well, if it isn’t the notorious Bob Nolan,” he said with a touch of genuine surprise. There stood a fifty-something-year-old sporting a black crew-cut, Buddy Holly-esque eyeglasses, two days’ gray
stubble, a blood-pocked dirty sport shirt, and a left arm in a bloody homemade sling. Nolan looked like anything but a master spy and adversary. His companion was an Asian woman, maybe late thirties, with an aggressive demeanor despite her femme fatale looks.
“Is Coulter with you?” asked Nolan.
“Can’t say, mate, but we’re taking a ride and you’re the VIP guest. I’m leaving one of my people behind”—he gestured behind at the helicopter—“to keep an eye on this lot and the jet. Let’s get moving. It’ll be hotter than blazes soon, and there’s a lot to talk about.”
Kaili stepped forward. “I’m coming with you,” she said. “I need to know the truth, too.”
“Well, darling, as long as you know it’s a dangerous place. Lots of accidents happen at the Eco-Camp.”
“I’m coming and you’ll not lay a hand on me. I’ve a diplomatic passport from the People’s Republic of China.”
“Oh my! A diplomat. Well, our leader will be most impressed, Ms. . . .?”
“Yu. Yu Kaili. Head of station, Ministry of State Security, Singapore.”
Wollam shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.” The guards had now walked up to join them. Wollam addressed his men. “Toby, pat them both down. Sandy, put them in the back and slot ’em if they so much as snarl.”
With the arrival of the sentries, Nishimoto and Jenkins had silently descended the gangway to add their numbers to Nolan’s cause. Wollam considered the pilots and said, “Just take it easy, mates, and stay by your radio. If all goes well, you’ll get these two back and can fly out later today. Or you might be flying alone. But that’s not your call to make, so Toby will stay behind to make certain neither of ya go mad as a cut snake.”
* * * * *
Macca put down his binoculars. “Whaddya make of that?” he said to no one in particular. His colleagues also had their binos out, NVGs no longer necessary.
His 2IC Sergeant Waterhouse answered for them all. “That’s an exchange. You see how the chappie patted the man and the woman down before they climbed into the Bell? And one of the two squaddies off the chopper stayed behind? He’s a sentry. If there’s been a hijacking, I’d say it’s the old fella in the Bell nicked that couple off the jet, and not the other way round.”
“That’s my read, too. Chonga, get on the comms. I need to speak with someone who knows what the fuck we’re doing out here. Start by raising Jonesy at HQ. In the meantime, orders or no orders, we’re not shooting anyone, starting with Nolan. Remind the sniper team that they’re still on stand down.”
“Got it, Macca.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
BEACH WEAR
FRIDAY MORNING, MARCH 14, FORT MEADE, MARYLAND;
SATURDAY MARCH 15, ADMIRALTY GULF, WESTERN AUSTRALIA
Weill and Gregory clustered with the other celebrants around several big screen monitors. Two hours ago the mood had been ebullient when China had asked for a ceasefire; now they could see why their foe had quit. The first satellite photos of familiar mainland military installations scrolled in an impromptu slideshow. It looked like a rerun of the first Gulf War, Desert Storm 1990. Nothing but videos of laser-guided bombs and cruise missiles destroying target after target, secondary explosions and stills of the smoking aftermaths. The USAF suffered five dead and wounded, with another fifty-plus naval personnel wounded from a single missile strike on a destroyer. The US had lost a total of three aircraft, while China’s navy was now down eleven capital ships, two dozen support vessels and at least thirty aircraft. None of China’s ground-to-air guidance radar systems seemed to have functioned: the bombing runs were virtually unopposed from the ground while carrier-based fighters shot down most of the Shenyang and Chengdu fighters that managed to get airborne. The rest fired their missiles and fled.
There was a whoop from next door followed by a shout: “Gao Xiang has resigned! Gao is out!” Little-known former Vice Minister of the Ministry of State Security Liu Zhenchang was the new president of China. This was quite a comeback for someone who had been fired and under house arrest since Tuesday.
* * * * *
The Bell landed on the beach without a hitch. So here we are, Nolan thought. The end of the earth, and certainly the end of the line. And who should come walking up but Deputy Dog, older but still unmistakably the ADDCO. Nolan watched that confident gait, like an old gunslinger sauntering down Main Street with the marshal dead, and the good guys run out of town.
Nolan pursed his lips with the realization of his error. He only hoped his legal pad MH370 tell-all someday found its way into the media so Coulter didn’t escape unpunished. He knew how the ADDCO worked. No one—not Kaili, not Nolan and not even the guards—would be allowed to implicate Coulter in MH370 or this business. The insouciant slaying of 239 people was sociopathic behavior beyond comprehension, and here Deputy Dog was with a spring in his step and a smile on his face.
“Hello, Frank. Not surprised to see you here.”
“Well, I’ll be durned if it isn’t ole Bob. I must say I wasn’t figuring you to make it this far. Welcome to the Eco-Camp, better known in the old days as the Lizard Cage. And who might this lovely lady be?”
“I’m Yu Kaili, former deputy head of Counter Intelligence for the MSS. I’m here to take you into custody for the murder of 152 China nationals on MH370.”
“Ah, shucks, ma’am. I don’t think you can do that. And your math is wrong, too. You’ll hear more about that by and by. Bob, you look like hell.”
“I’d love some water and an hour of your time, Frank.”
“I think we can manage both. Let’s git out of the sun.” Turning behind him he said, “Sandy, you’d best bring Ms. Yu with us, and come along yourself.”
“And what would you like, ma’am?” Coulter asked Kaili. The air conditioner in Coulter’s hut was noisy, forcing Nolan to strain to detect that soft drawl that so many years ago had directed him in the aftermath of the fall of Double Llama Trading. A low-watt lightbulb provided enough illumination to show Coulter’s face. He looked every one of his seventy-five-plus years: heavy furrows, loose jowls, and more salt than pepper hair. Coulter appeared to have spent his life in the elements.
“Our meeting here completes the cycle. Do you remember in 2008 how you destroyed my career by pushing Stuxnet over a strike against Iran’s nuclear facilities?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Nolan said.
“Sure you do. As the ADDCO, I was in the room in 2008 when you presented to the Mossad’s Meir Dagan and DCI Hayden. That was probably the worst sales job I ever heard.” Coulter allowed a reflective smile. “But the Mossad was intrigued, and Hayden didn’t want to expose the Agency to another gutting at the hands of the congressional liberals, so President Bush took the easy way out. In short order, I was left behind on the cattle drive. By March ’09, I was out of the job I’d worked over thirty years to earn.”
“I knew you’d retired, but that wasn’t surprising. Hell, you were almost seventy in any—”
“I had years of service left in me! There were over a dozen approved covert ops ready to go when I was forced out. None of them ever transpired, good people died needlessly, and the world is a more dangerous place today because of it. That’s on you.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. But what on earth could justify murdering almost two hundred and forty innocent people? What about them?”
“Two hundred and forty? Pshaw! What’s that considered against what we’ve already learned? Bob, you do realize that Stuxnet only delayed the Iranians? That their nuclear program today is bigger and more lethal than ever?”
“Stuxnet was designed precisely to do what it did: retard Iran’s acquisition of a nuclear weapon to buy more time to work toward a diplomatic solution.” Nolan saw that Coulter was losing self-control.
“Diplomacy?” Coulter was contemptuous. “You’re a lifelong intelligence officer. How many times in your career did diplomacy resolve a crisis?” Coulter’s face flushed and anger laced his soft voice. “You we
re in favor of Stuxnet because it involved world-firsts in cyberespionage you could put your name to. It was one big ego massage for the NSA and CIA cryptanalysts. You didn’t care about or believe in diplomacy any more than I did. Your grand Stuxnet plan was selfish. It laid waste not only to my career, but also US Middle East foreign policy. That’s what Stuxnet did.”
“OK, OK, maybe you have a point. Stuxnet won me a promotion, a transfer to Singapore and even a medal. None of that was expected, but Stuxnet also succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations. It’s not my fault the diplomats dropped the ball. So don’t hang the State Department’s inability to negotiate with the Ayatollahs around my neck. Tell me. Why hijack MH370 and kill everyone in the first place? That’s what’s been eating at me since I first heard the news.”
Coulter was all business now. “My team of current and former analysts amassed evidence that Iran had a dozen-bomb nuclear arsenal with few delivery mechanisms, a ballistic missile on the way, a prototype missile-compatible warhead, and no triggers for those missile-borne devices. If the Iranians obtained triggers, they would have ten missiles with six-hundred-plus-mile ranges in operation in six to twelve months.
“In that Malaysia airliner’s cargo hold were two faulty nuclear triggers, a broken IR-1 centrifuge—a prop of no strategic interest—and a kilogram of bomb-grade U-235 in a containment vessel stored in the same crate as the centrifuge.