William Hoover—Mike doubted that was his real name—was the type of man you could pass on the street and never remember having seen. Caucasian, of medium height and build, with brown hair and eyes, he could blend in almost anywhere. He interacted with Mike cordially, but in the loving way one deals with a family pet, caring for its every need, yet willing to put the animal to sleep when the time came. Mike didn’t care. He figured he was using Hoover even more than the younger man was using him.
Hoover sat without greeting, placing a brown satchel on the floor next to his chair. He appeared uncharacteristically tense.
“Is the Kentucky in range?” the man asked.
Mike shook his head. “Not yet. It’ll be another nine days.”
Hoover sat in his chair reflectively, as if making a mental calculation. “You will send orders to the Kentucky as planned,” he said finally. “However,” he added, “you must execute today.”
Mike shook his head. “We must wait until the Kentucky is in range before we send the order.”
Hoover replied firmly, “You must execute now.”
Mike paused, preparing to describe the situation like an elementary school teacher explaining a basic mathematical concept to her students for the first time. “The Kentucky just began her transit to her patrol areas, and the United States will have nine days to respond if we send the order now.”
“You must execute now,” the man repeated.
Exhaling slowly, Mike tried to control his frustration. Sending the launch order now would jeopardize everything. “You guys don’t know what you’re doing.”
“We know exactly what we’re doing.” The man almost hissed the word. But then his voice calmed. “There are elements to this plan you are not privy to. I assure you the Kentucky will reach launch range. There is nothing the United States can do once you transmit the launch order.”
The conviction in his voice convinced Mike to acquiesce. After all, it was their plan.
Mike’s lack of response conveyed his agreement, and Hoover opened the brown satchel, retrieving a small black nylon case and a white envelope. “Here is what you need. Do you have any questions?”
Mike shook his head, his mouth dry.
The man returned the contents to the bag, then stood and left, leaving the brown leather case next to his chair. Mike sat at the table a few minutes longer before asking for the check.
A moment later, Mike stepped outside Carlyle’s, the satchel gripped tightly in his hand. He paused on the sidewalk along the busy street, looking up into the overcast sky, blinking as the cold rain hit his face and eyes, until a gust of wind knocked him off balance. He pulled his coat tight around his neck, tucked his head down, and set off toward the Colonial parking garage—and his last remaining task.
9 DAYS REMAINING
10
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The afternoon rain had moved on, leaving behind broken clouds through which the sun gave notification of its slow descent. As Mike Patton stood outside the South Entrance to the Pentagon, he considered delaying his arrival for an hour; the 9/11 Memorial park was just around the corner, offering a clear view of what he hoped was a spectacular end to the last day of his life. But while there was something fitting about watching the sun slip below the horizon just before he completed his final task, he realized a late relief would catch his supervisor’s attention, and that was the last thing he wanted tonight.
Following the meeting at Carlyle’s this afternoon, Mike had returned home, shed his wet clothes, and dressed for work, leaving the darkened brownstone and his dreams behind. He left the door unlocked, because he no longer needed the worldly possessions within. All that mattered were the contents of the briefcase he carried in his right hand. Gripping the satchel even tighter, he let his thoughts of the sunset pass and turned toward the Pentagon’s entrance.
* * *
At that precise moment, Christine O’Connor was busy at her desk in the White House, anxiously awaiting the end of another contentious day. As expected, her meeting with Hardison this morning had not gone well, especially after the chief of staff had insisted on discussing the intelligence reorganization, even though she had made her position perfectly clear. The meeting had not ended until Christine, frustrated beyond belief, had asked Hardison which part of her answer he didn’t understand, the N or the O.
Notwithstanding her meeting with Hardison, Christine’s thoughts never strayed far from Evans’s murder and the disk she had found in his computer. An hour after her phone call to Director Ken Ronan yesterday, a CIA courier had stopped by to pick up the disk, which Christine had discreetly handed over; Ronan had agreed to place priority on the analysis. As she was winding things up for the day, Christine was interrupted by the beep of her intercom, followed by her secretary’s voice.
“Miss O’Connor, an Agent Kenney is here to see you.”
“Send him in.”
A man in a dark gray suit entered her office. “Good afternoon, Miss O’Connor. I’m Agent John Kenney. Director Ronan sent me over.” He opened his wallet, flashing his CIA badge.
Christine reached over her desk to shake his hand. “Please, have a seat.”
Kenney unbuttoned his jacket as he took the chair in front of her desk. “We’ve examined the CD you gave us, but it’s left us with more questions than answers.”
“What was on the CD?”
“There was one encrypted file, with the rest of the files being merely time stamps. However, the time stamps correspond to the dates and times the Defense Department databases were probed for information by an external source. We’ve correlated the object of these probes, and it’s become clear that someone was searching for specific information.”
“What information?”
“Do you know what the code word digashi stands for?”
Christine stopped breathing, just for a second. She reached for her coffee cup, hoping Kenney hadn’t noticed her reaction. “I’m sorry, Agent Kenney, but I can’t help you.”
Kenney smiled. “Your word choice is subtle, Miss O’Connor. Most people would have said they had no idea what this word meant. You said you can’t help me, which implies something completely different.”
Christine smiled back. “I’m afraid the security clearance required for this topic is well beyond the issues you normally deal with.”
Kenney reached into his wallet again and retrieved his ID badge, tossing it onto Christine’s desk. “I have a top secret clearance, authorized access to Special Compartmented Information. I’m pretty sure I’m briefed into whatever program you need. Go ahead, check.”
Christine swiveled her chair toward the computer monitor on the corner of her desk, flipped through a couple of windows on the display, and typed the CIA agent’s social security number on her keyboard. A few seconds later, she turned back to John Henry Kenney.
“Okay, you’re cleared.”
“And…?”
Christine leaned back in her chair. “Digashi is the code word for a nuclear first strike.”
“A nuclear first strike?” Kenney echoed her words. “By who?”
Christine folded her arms across her chest. “By us.”
* * *
In the Pentagon basement at the end of Corridor 9, Mike Patton swiped his badge and punched in his pass code. He opened the door to the Operations Center of the National Military Command Center, then paused for a second before stepping into the room he would not exit alive. He could not predict how many of the other men and women in the room, some of them close friends, would share the same fate.
Mike stopped at the top of the new Operations Center. The Pentagon had completed its seemingly never-ending renovation, and the Ops Center had moved to its new, multitiered space in the basement level, patterned after the stepped NASA control rooms. The center dropped down in three increments, with each of the first two tiers holding ten workstations, five on either side of a center aisle, with the Watch Captain’s workstation
located on the bottom tier. An eight-by-ten-foot electronic display of the world hung on the front wall, annotated with the status of the nation’s nuclear assets. Four Trident submarines were at sea in the Pacific Ocean: two on Alert patrol, a third on the way home, and a fourth, the one Mike was interested in, outbound from the Hawaiian operating areas.
Most of the watchstanders were still turning over, including the Watch Captain, a Navy rear admiral in the process of being relieved by an Air Force brigadier general. After surveying the men and women at their workstations, Mike made his way left along the top of the center to the third workstation in the first tier. Placing his briefcase gently on the floor, he pulled up a chair. “Evening, Isaiah. What have you got?”
Isaiah Jones looked up from his monitor. “No change in DEFCON, the Tennessee has relieved the West Virginia in LANT, and we’ve got one down silo in North Dakota. Pretty quiet all around.” After a few more minutes discussing the more mundane details of the last six hours, Isaiah signed out of the watch log on his computer, then packed up his bag, along with an empty package of Doritos and a crumpled-up Coke can. “See you tomorrow, Mike.”
“Take care, Isaiah.”
Mike kept himself busy, waiting until the last member of the previous watch section departed, leaving him alone with the other nineteen watchstanders and the Watch Captain. Retrieving the black nylon case from his satchel, he opened it, exposing what looked like a small plastic insurance card and three nasal inhalers. He pulled out the card and slid it into his pocket. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his back, pretending to stretch out his shoulders, then stood and sauntered toward the entrance at the back of the room.
Stopping with his back next to the security door, Mike removed the thin card from his pocket and held it next to the electronic lock mechanism. Ten seconds was all it would take to destroy the electronic circuitry, he’d been told, but he held it there an extra five seconds for good measure. Sliding the card back into his pocket, he returned to his seat, then removed the smallest nasal inhaler from the case. After looking around to ensure no one was watching, he pressed the tip of the inhaler against his neck. The warmth spread quickly throughout his body. Retrieving the largest inhaler, Mike stood again, slowly walking behind the two rows of watchstanders as he pressed the inhaler plunger, releasing the odorless gas into the room.
* * *
Agent Kenney’s face displayed no hint of emotion at Christine’s explanation of digashi. “I wasn’t aware we had nuclear first-strike options.”
“Technically, there’s no difference,” Christine replied. “It’s a matter of timing. The launch orders are the same. Whether it’s a first strike or a retaliatory depends on who launches first.”
Kenney nodded, absorbing the perspective. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope, retrieving a single piece of paper and handing it to Christine.
“This is the content of the encrypted file. We’re running background checks on these individuals, but are any of these names familiar?”
Christine studied the list of ten men and women. “I’m afraid not.”
“What about the letters ‘I S’?”
Looking at the list again, Christine noticed each name was preceded by the letters I S. The letters could represent any number of things, and without additional clues she drew a blank.
“Let me see what I can find out.” She placed the paper near her keyboard, selected the appropriate window on her monitor, then typed in the first name on the list. The defense personnel database responded immediately.
Ronald Cobb—NMCC
She typed in the second name.
Andrew Bloom—NMCC
After she’d typed in the third name, her stomach tightened.
Bradley Green—NMCC
She stopped after the fourth entry.
Kathy Leenstra—NMCC
Kenney watched as Christine sat there, no longer typing. “What is it, Miss O’Connor?”
Christine turned in her chair, facing Kenney again. “These individuals are employees at the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon, responsible for generating nuclear strike messages to our intercontinental ballistic missile silos, B-2 bombers, and Trident submarines.” She stared at the list again, trying to figure out the meaning of “I S” in front of each name. Her eyes widened as it dawned on her.
Inner safe.
Nuclear launch orders would not be considered valid unless the code at the bottom of the message matched the codes contained in double-walled safes in the missile silos, bombers, and submarines, with no one person having both combinations. The only way to write a valid order was to open both safe doors in NMCC, allowing access to the sealed codes inside. These ten men and women apparently had the combination to the safe’s inner door.
Swiveling back to her computer, Christine pulled a number from her contact list. Picking up the phone, she dialed the Watch Captain at the National Military Command Center. The phone rang, but there was no answer. Christine hung up and dialed again. After ten rings, still no answer. She slammed the phone down. “We need to get to the Command Center.”
* * *
While the other members of his watch section sat slumped in their chairs or over their consoles, Mike worked at his desk, ignoring the phone that rang at the Watch Captain’s desk. He finished the message except for the last part and closed the codebook. Approaching the safe at the front of the room, he entered the combination and unlocked the safe. Inside was another door, with another combination dial. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out the envelope Hoover had given him and retrieved the single sheet of paper. He ran his finger down the list of ten names before returning to the first. His finger lingered at the top of the page for a moment before he pulled the first inhaler from the kit, the one he’d injected into his neck, plus the third vial, this one with a sharp tip at the end.
Searching the room, he spotted his best friend, Ron Cobb, the first name on the list. He walked over to Ron, who was slumped over his workstation, and injected the inhaler into his neck. Thirty seconds later, Ron’s eyes fluttered open. Grabbing Ron roughly, Mike pulled him upright in his chair; Ron’s head was bent back, his eyes looking at the ceiling. Mike held the vial with the sharp tip against Ron’s neck. “Ron, can you hear me?”
Ron’s eyes gradually moved down toward Mike’s face. He brought his head forward, stopping as he met the pressure of Mike’s hand against his neck. Ron looked slowly around the Operations Center at the unconscious men and women at their workstations, his drowsy appearance transforming into a bewildered expression.
“What the hell—”
“I need the combination to the inner safe, Ron. What is it?”
Ron stiffened as his gaze shifted back to Mike. “I can’t tell you,” he sputtered. “You have the combination to the outer safe. No one person can have both combinations.” Ron’s eyes roamed around the Operations Center, spotting the safe and its open outer door. “What are you doing?”
Mike pressed the applicator against Ron’s neck. “This injector contains a poison that will kill you in seconds. Give me the combination.”
“I can’t, Mike! Then you’d have access to the nuclear authorization codes!”
“Yes you can. And you’ve got ten seconds to give me the combination.”
“We’ve worked together for fifteen years,” Ron replied, the panic rising in his voice. “Our wives were best friends. I’ve got four kids at home!”
“You’re right, Ron. And it would be a shame for Arlene to have to bury you, with your children standing beside her as they lower your coffin into your grave.”
“I can’t, Mike! Please!”
11
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
A black Suburban, its blue lights flashing, crossed the 14th Street Bridge at the end of rush hour. Forcing its way across three lanes of heavy traffic, an identical Suburban followed closely behind. Christine, sitting in the passenger seat of the lead vehicl
e next to Agent Kenney, ended her phone call without a word, her eyes fixed on the rapidly nearing Pentagon.
En route, Christine had contacted the deputy director of the National Military Command Center, who, while perplexed by the Watch Captain’s failure to answer Christine’s phone calls, was convinced it was nothing more than a simple connectivity problem. The deputy director was in a meeting a few blocks away in Crystal City but had agreed to meet Christine at the Operations Center. He had called back just before Kenney’s SUV peeled off I-395 toward the Pentagon. Personnel inside the Command Center were also failing to answer the classified lines, and the deputy director’s concern had skyrocketed. Kenney had picked up Christine’s rising tension and was pushing his vehicle as fast as traffic moved out of his way.
A few moments later, the Suburban squealed to a halt at the Pentagon’s River Entrance just as the second SUV, containing two men, ground to a halt behind them. One of the men joined Christine and Kenney as they ascended the River Terrace three steps at a time, while the second remained with the vehicles. Christine and the two agents sped through the Pentagon entrance as they flashed their badges to security personnel, then, after dropping down three levels via the A Ring escalators, headed out along Corridor 9 toward the outermost ring. They eventually reached the end of a long hallway, where two Marines stood in front of a large security door.
“Open the door,” Christine ordered.
“We can’t,” the Marine on the left answered. “The door won’t unlock, and there’s no response from inside.”
“Are you sure you have the correct code?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s standard protocol if you can’t gain access?”
The Trident Deception Page 8