Shooting Gallery

by Ben Coes

  The building was the control tower.

  It was a simple, windowless structure, constructed of corrugated steel. It stood ten and a half feet tall and had a flat roof, on top of which were several large antennas. Other than a small parking area, which was empty, the control tower was the only man-made object in any direction for several miles—at least, the only man-made object aboveground. Exactly four hundred feet from the control tower was a small mound of dirt that arose a few inches in the air. This mound of dirt marked what had been the opening to a tunnel that was now plugged with sand, gypsum, and gravel. The tunnel was 772 meters deep. About halfway down the tunnel, a lead-lined canister held diagnostic equipment.

  At the bottom of the tunnel sat a thirteen-kiloton nuclear bomb.

  The control tower was surrounded by four massive but shallow craters in the ground, each several hundred feet in diameter. The craters memorialized the locations of North Korea’s four previous nuclear tests.

  Six kilometers away stood another building. This was the surface control bunker. Like the control tower, it was off on its own, at the end of a dirt road. The surface control bunker was made of concrete and had three large windows that faced the control tower in the distance. Inside, there was one room—a large observation and management area filled with tables, computers, diagnostic equipment, and more than a dozen high-powered cameras. Several dozen people stood behind the window, each with a set of binoculars, watching the control tower in the distance.

  Dr. Yung Phann-il, the man responsible for North Korea’s nuclear weapons program, removed the binoculars from his eyes. He looked at a young engineer who was seated before a control screen. Phann-il nodded to the man.

  “You have my permission to proceed,” said Phann-il.

  “Yes, sir,” said the engineer.

  The young man reached forward and lifted a small metal compartment. Beneath was a red switch. He waited one extra moment, glanced at a digital clock on the screen in front of him, then flipped the switch.

  “Ground zero in five, four, three, two, one…”

  Boom.

  It was less of a sound than a bump beneath them, followed by a weak tremor that grew stronger and stronger. In the distance, the air near the control tower went dust-filled and wavy. Everything inside the bunker shook and rattled. After just more than twenty seconds, everything stopped.

  The entire room full of scientists, engineers, and military officials looked at Phann-il. His face was as blank as stone—and then it flashed into a wide smile.

  “Success!” he yelled … and the room broke into a chorus of cheers.

  4

  U.S. GEOLOGICAL SURVEY

  RESTON, VIRGINIA

  Less than ten seconds later, half a world away, Martha Cohen was taking a sip of coffee when she suddenly heard the soft, high-pitched sound of beeping coming from one of her computers. With her free hand, she hit her keyboard, entering into one of the applications she used to monitor geologic activity. Brown, an analyst at the U.S. Geological Survey in Reston, Virginia, stared at her screen as it flashed red. Earthquake. Another few keystrokes revealed a map. In seconds, Brown’s view zoomed in to a place she’d seen before, a place that, according to her equipment, had just had an earthquake. But like the previous four, Brown knew it wasn’t an earthquake.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  She lunged for her phone and hit number 4 on her speed dial. There were a few clicks but no ring, then a stern female voice.

  “Office of the national security advisor,” came the voice.

  “This is Dr. Martha Cohen at USGS. I need Mr. Brubaker immediately. This is an emergency priority.”

  “He’ll ask—”

  “North Korea just conducted another nuclear test,” interrupted Brown. “It’s early, but I assess between twenty and twenty-three kilotons.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Less than a minute.”

  5

  OVAL OFFICE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  President J. P. Dellenbaugh sat behind his desk inside the Oval Office. The meeting had been going on for thirty minutes.

  In addition to Dellenbaugh, there were ten people in the room. They included the president’s national security advisor, Josh Brubaker; Secretary of Defense Dale Arnold; chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Phil Tralies; the NSA director, Piper Redgrave; Secretary of Energy Marshall Terry; Secretary of State Mila Mijailovic; and the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Hector Calibrisi. Several other White House, CIA, and Pentagon staffers were also present.

  Dellenbaugh had already spoken with the president of South Korea, the president of Japan, and the premier of the People’s Republic of China.

  Dellenbaugh’s sleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened. He was looking at Brubaker, who was briefing the group on the explosion.

  “USGS has it at twenty point four kilotons,” said Brubaker. “That’s more than twice as powerful as North Korea’s last test.”

  “What are they after?” said Dellenbaugh.

  “Money,” said Mijailovic, the secretary of state. “They conduct a test whenever they’re running low.”

  “It’s more than that,” said Brubaker. “Kim is insane,” he added, referring to North Korea’s leader, Kim Jong-un. “Analysis of Pyongyang cash flows through various currency markets indicates nothing at a critical point. Yes, the country is destitute—but they have cash.”

  Dellenbaugh looked at Calibrisi.

  “This has gone on far too long, Hector,” said Dellenbaugh. “They have nuclear weapons. It’s only a matter of time until they figure out how to build an ICBM.” He looked at Brubaker. “Josh, if you’re right, if Kim is motivated not by greed but by insanity, then God help us.”

  “So let’s do some nuclear testing of our own,” said King, the hotheaded Irish chief of staff. “We can start with downtown Pyongyang.”

  Dellenbaugh cast a hard set of eyes on King. “That’s not productive.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be, sir. Until now, Kim Jong-un has been all talk. But no more. We can’t allow that to happen. A preemptive strike has to be on the table.”

  “You heard the Chinese premier,” said the secretary of defense. “If we attack North Korea, Xi will consider it a declaration of war on China. Trust me, that’s a war we don’t want to fight right now. Attacking is not an option.”

  “Everything is an option,” said Dellenbaugh brutally.

  Brubaker looked at Calibrisi.

  “Why the hell haven’t you guys done anything?” seethed Brubaker.

  “You think we haven’t tried?” said Calibrisi. “We have three agents rotting away in North Korean prisons and seven dead. Read your briefs, Josh.”

  There was a long silence. It was Dellenbaugh who spoke. He looked at the secretary of defense.

  “I want three military options,” said Dellenbaugh. “I want one of them to include tactical nuclear weapons. Coordinate with the secretary of state. Any military action will need to be heavily preempted in Beijing and Tokyo.”

  “And Moscow,” said Mijailovic, the secretary of state.

  Dellenbaugh looked at Calibrisi.

  “You have a week, Hector.”

  “To do what?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dellenbaugh. “Something that hurts. Something that gets us closer to stopping Kim.”

  6

  MI6 HEADQUARTERS

  THE RIVER HOUSE

  LONDON

  Jenna Hartford was leaning back in her chair. On her desk were several pieces of paper, laid out in a row. They contained the details of an operation she had designed.

  Different intelligence services are good at different things. MI6 was the world standard-bearer in terms of covert operation design.

  A middle-aged woman named Veronica Smythson was MI6’s director general of operations design, but it was Jenna who was the small department’s star. In three years at MI6, she had risen on the strength of her bol
d, often theatrical operations. Jenna had designed the complicated, brilliant operation to kill Fao Bhang, head of Chinese intelligence. She was also the chief architect of an operation to expose a pair of moles inside MI6 who’d been selling secrets to the Russian government.

  The operation in front of her was a simpler affair. MI6 was attempting to recruit a Saudi attorney who acted as a courier between Hezbollah and ISIS. The agent handling the recruitment believed the Saudi was now having second thoughts. Jenna’s operation was originally supposed to be a simple snatch-and-grab. It wasn’t that simple after all. Jenna had spent the night before analyzing various electronic data surrounding the Saudi. She was convinced he’d long since abandoned the idea of running to England. He was escaping—and somehow knew MI6 was coming.

  Despite spending all night designing the now somewhat complicated operation, Jenna wasn’t reviewing it. Instead, she was reading, for the hundredth time, the forensic analysis of her husband’s murder. Each time, the report made her heart ache as she thought of Charles in the very moment the bomb went off. It was as if she needed the pain to make her feel less guilty. Of all the professions she could have chosen, why did she choose intelligence work? And why had she let Charles borrow her car that morning? For six long months now, the questions kept occurring and reoccurring in her head as she thought about the sight of the flames and fire on the street below the window of their flat—and her husband incinerated within.

  She studied the summary:

  TOP SECRET

  MI6 CODE

  77.c.5Tx

  WITH MI5 SPECIAL UNIT

  AFTER ACTION INVESTIGATION AND ANALYSIS:

  CHELTENHAM BOMBING—4-APRIL

  [NOTE: INVESTIGATION IS ACTIVE]

  SUMMARY: Until further evidence is developed, the preliminary conclusion of the committee to investigate the events of April 4 at Cheltenham Mews is inconclusive. The explosive used was SEMTEX. Analysis of residue implicates a Philippines manufacturer whose product is widely available throughout the world. Analysis of CCT video is also inconclusive. The investigation is, per order of DG Chalmers, to be kept active and focused on individual motives related to F6-2 Hartford, whose previous actions may have motivated the event.

  * * *

  Why me? she thought to herself as she stared at the top sheet. Fucking, why? She put her hand to her eyes and rubbed them, slowly shaking her head back and forth.

  The door to Jenna’s office suddenly opened. A young black man in a dark sweater put his head inside. It was her assistant, Jonas.

  “Jenna, the briefing?” he said. He said it scoldingly, but with a tender smile on his face.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. She glanced at the clock on her desk. She stood up, placing the file down.

  She had on a pair of tan linen pants and a sleeveless Burberry blouse. Both were wrinkled. The blouse was untucked.

  Jonas scanned her up and down and shook his head. He stepped inside and shut the door. He walked toward her.

  “Your hair is a mess,” he said. “Did you sleep here again?”

  “No,” she said, lying.

  “You’re a bad liar. You were wearing that same outfit yesterday. Where’s your brush?”

  “I don’t have a fucking brush,” she said, her British accent sharp and precise. “Who cares anyway?”

  “I do,” he said.

  Jonas stood in front of Jenna and reached forward with both hands, running them through her hair from front to back several times, trying to straighten it out.

  “There,” he said.

  He pulled his sweater off and handed it to her.

  “Put this on. We’re the same size. It’s Paul and Shark. It’s unisex.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Jenna. She pulled the sweater down over the blouse. It fit well.

  “Brilliant,” said Jonas. “Now get going.”

  Jenna started to walk to the door.

  “Wait,” he said. He reached to her desk and grabbed the operation design. “Might be a good idea to bring this.”

  Jenna took it from him and looked briefly in his eyes, saying nothing. She walked to the door and stepped out.

  * * *

  Inside the operations briefing room, half a dozen individuals were already seated, including her immediate supervisor, Smythson, and Derek Chalmers, the head of MI6. When she stepped inside, the conversation stopped. Jenna said nothing. Instead, she took a seat at the end of the table and looked with a blank expression at those seated around it. All eyes were on her.

  “What?” she asked. “I’m sorry I’m late. I … I lost track of time.”

  Smythson stood up and walked around the table, coming up behind her. She reached forward and, without asking, took the operation briefing from Jenna. Standing behind her, she read it over. After a minute, she handed it back.

  “Needlessly complicated,” said Smythson. “This is an exfiltration. We have assets in-theater. We know he’s going to be at the train station at sometime between twenty and twenty-two hundred. The car is positioned outside. Airport, flight to London. Frankly, we didn’t even need an architect on this one.”

  Smythson dropped the paper down on the table.

  Again, there was a period of quiet as all eyes went back to Jenna.

  “Why was I asked to bloody well do it then?” said Jenna, staring hard at Smythson.

  “Because it was a straightforward snatch-and-grab you could’ve penned in thirty minutes,” said Smythson. “I was trying to be kind.”

  “Maybe I just don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” said Jenna.

  “Oh, for Christ sake, have thicker skin, Jenna,” said Smythson, sitting back down.

  “Thick skin?” said Jenna.

  “Yes. Don’t take it so personally.”

  Jenna paused.

  “Fine, I agree we should all have thick skin,” said Jenna. “So I hope you won’t take it the wrong way if I tell you you have no bloody fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

  Smythson’s eyes grew icy.

  Chalmers cleared his throat.

  “Veronica, Jenna—” he said.

  “Let her finish,” said Smythson, leaning back. “This should be good.”

  “If I had written the design as you instructed, the target would have escaped and we’d be out one courier, a man we’ve spent two years and millions of dollars recruiting,” said Jenna.

  “Oh, bullshit. How do you know?”

  “Because I ordered up two years of Echelons on the man and I spent more than an hour poring through bloody cell taps and emails. Your courier won’t be at the train station. He bought a plane ticket to Cairo. He’s not going to be there! He lied to you. So if we want to take him, my operation is the only way to do it. He needs to be taken at lunch—today. Otherwise we can all forget it. He’ll be gone.”

  Jenna paused and stared at Veronica.

  “I know how thick your skin is, Veronica,” Jenna said, “so don’t be upset by the fact that your operation would have resulted in the loss of a key MI6 courier.”

  Smythson was silent, as was everyone else in the room. It was Chalmers who finally spoke up.

  “Give us the room,” he said, looking at Jenna.

  Everyone stood up from their chairs and started to leave except for Chalmers, Smythson, and Jenna. Chalmers glanced at Smythson. “You too,” he said. “And run the operation as Jenna designed it.”

  Chalmers and Jenna were alone, at opposite ends of the long glass table. After several pregnant moments, Chalmers smiled.

  “You pretty well put her in her place, didn’t you?” said Chalmers.

  “She deserved it.”

  “Does anybody deserve anything, really, when it comes right down to it?” said Chalmers.

  “What do you want, Derek?” said Jenna.

  “Did you know I was the one who recruited you?” said Chalmers.

  “I thought it was Burrows.”

  Chalmers shook his head.

  “There’s a professor at the uni
versity,” said Chalmers, “a man who occasionally marks a promising individual. Anyway, he’d spotted someone, Nicholas something or other. I took him to coffee. Afterwards, he was in the finals of the student union debating competition. There was a large crowd. I went into the back of the auditorium and took a seat to watch our man, Nicholas, in the debate. I figured he would destroy whoever he faced.”

  Jenna said nothing.

  “Anyway, I watched a young, pretty, brown-haired girl come out onto the stage. She didn’t have any notes. She was a first year at Oxford. Nicholas what’s-his-name was president of the student union. I think everyone expected him to stomp on this young girl.”

  “Woman,” said Jenna, barely above a whisper.

  Chalmers smiled. “Woman,” he agreed. “But you weren’t having any of it, were you, Jenna Bradstreet Hartford?”

  A small smile, the first in weeks, came to her lips.

  “I’ve often wondered if I should have just left you alone,” said Chalmers. “After all, you’d be an MP by now. A young Margaret Thatcher, but with beauty.”

  Jenna stared at Chalmers for several seconds.

  “Are you firing me?” she asked.

  Chalmers said nothing. He held her eyes in his gaze.

  “No,” he said, finally. “But I’m assigning you.”

  “What?” she barked. “Why? I’m the … well, let’s be honest: I’m the bloody well fucking best at what I do.”

  “You’re talented, Jenna, no question,” said Chalmers. “But you need a different platform than what MI6 is willing to provide. A broader platform.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’ve spoken with Hector Calibrisi and Bill Polk,” he said. “They’re both familiar with your work. You’ll join the Directorate of Operations. They need an architect, badly. Frankly, it’s in MI6’s interest for Langley to have someone with your skills there.”

  “And am I obligated to tell you everything? I’m not going to be a rat of yours inside the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “I agree. You work for them and your loyalties are to America, and, hopefully, Britain always.”