The Zero Option

by David Rollins

  ‘The same, pretty much.’

  ‘Booze amplified the problem. He refused to fly. The Air Force psychs back then weren’t what they are today. They couldn’t help him. One day, Curtis and I had a fight. Every couple has them, but we’d become dysfunctional. It was over his drinking, the lack of emotional support he was providing you—and me. I pushed him. And he hit me.’

  ‘He hit you?’ Ben said, shocked.

  ‘It wasn’t hard, but that’s not the point, right? Curtis was deeply depressed and distracted in ways I can’t begin to understand, even now. Something happened to him. But when he hit me, we both knew he’d stepped over the line. It wasn’t the beginning of the end, it was the full stop. He just walked out. I never saw him again. I took you to my parents’ place here, met Frank—’

  ‘The man of her dreams,’ Frank called out, walking back in the room.

  ‘And you know the rest,’ she said.

  Ben had heard bits and pieces of this story over the years, but not all of it. He wondered what else he’d never been told.

  ‘This photo was with the documents,’ he said, holding up the shot of Curtis as a pilot with his buddies.

  Nikki peered at the photo. ‘Amazing . . . I’d forgotten how much you look like him.’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Such a waste. Nearly everyone in that photo is dead.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They were in a transport plane that went down.’

  ‘There was a survivor?’

  ‘Tex Mitchell, the guy on the end. He was on vacation at the time. Tex was Curtis’s navigator.’

  ‘Do you know where he is these days?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I might want to talk to him.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I doubt you’ll get anything out of Tex.’

  ‘Because . . .’

  ‘Because he signed the same secrecy agreement that Curtis signed. And those guys stick to the agreement.’

  ‘Mom . . .’

  With a sigh Nikki conceded. ‘Tex used to own the Radio Shack in Homestead. I don’t know if he still does. Listen, you don’t owe Curtis anything.’

  ‘He just gave me a whole bunch of money.’

  ‘He owed you that and a lot more. If I were you, I’d consider the account closed.’

  ‘Hey, I almost forgot,’ said Ben. ‘There was also this.’ He held up the postcard.

  ‘Oh . . .’ said Nikki, bringing her hand across her mouth.

  ‘What?’ Ben asked. It had obviously moved her.

  ‘Brings back memories—the summer of ’83. I was pregnant with you. Curtis was stationed at Eielson, Alaska. We were living in Fairbanks and it’d been raining, sleeting, snowing, drizzling—every kind of falling wetness you can imagine—for eight long months. Everyone was going nuts. And then suddenly the sun came out for a whole month. We couldn’t believe it. Curtis took leave. We spent three weeks at Chena Lake. It was our favorite place—so beautiful. We swam a lot. Curtis fished. It was often just like that postcard—heaven.’

  ‘He wants his ashes scattered there. It’s in the will.’

  ‘Really?’ Nikki seemed disturbed by the news.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he gave this to me to remind you that it wasn’t all bad?’

  Nikki frowned. ‘Yeah, maybe . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘You want me to mail this to you?’

  ‘No. No, thanks.’

  June 21, 1983

  The Old Executive Office Building, Washington DC. Hank could feel the sweat seeping into his shirt collar. He hooked a finger inside it and pulled the fabric away from his skin. It had to be 100 degrees outside and the air in the government Chrysler wasn’t working.

  ‘Des is expecting you,’ said a young woman who looked the part of Des Bilson’s personal assistant—young, pert, long fingernails painted red, a St Moritz smoker. He walked past her into the office.

  ‘Hey, Hank,’ said Bilson. ‘Close the door and take a load off.’

  Des looked cool, the knot of his blue and yellow designer silk tie hard up against his shirt button. Hank found himself wondering if the guy actually had sweat glands. His skin had taken on an odd waxy quality.

  ‘Jesus, it’s hot out there,’ Hank observed, slipping out of his suit coat and laying it beside him across the chair arm.

  ‘So, my man . . .’ said Bilson. ‘How’s our business coming along? Where are we, exactly?’

  ‘The crew we wanted is on board. Eric Hamilton has had several briefing sessions with them.’

  ‘I like Hamilton,’ Bilson said. ‘Solid guy. What about Garret?’

  ‘There’s a lot to put in place. Garret’s working through most of that.’

  ‘What I mean is, do you think he’s the right man for the job?’

  ‘Garret’s a fast learner.’

  ‘I get that from his report,’ said Bilson. ‘But when it comes to the hard decisions, can he make them? I’m not convinced. We need to make absolutely certain that we end up with the result we’re after, and we’re not 100 percent sure we’re there yet.’

  ‘Is that the royal we, Des?’

  ‘It is what it is, Hank. We’d like to introduce some certainty into the mission profile.’

  ‘How?’

  The phone on the desk rang. ‘Excuse me,’ said Bilson, answering it. ‘Yes, send him in.’

  The door opened and Eric Hamilton entered. Hank was surprised to see him. Hamilton was at the tactical end of the mission, the dirty end, and sometimes the dirt stuck. And that usually made people in this building nervous. If the plan didn’t work and he was seen in these corridors, deniability would be a stretch.

  Bilson motioned Hamilton toward the chair beside Hank, the ceiling lights reflecting little squares on the colonel’s glossy head.

  ‘As I was saying, Hank,’ Bilson continued, ‘one of our colleagues—who will remain nameless—had a few thoughts that we’ve been kicking around. Colonel, would you mind outlining for Hank what we discussed earlier?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Hamilton was a little on edge, aware that he’d been put in a difficult position. He half turned toward Hank. ‘We don’t know how the Soviets will respond to the overflight, so we need a worm on the hook.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘We might need to help the Russians take the bait.’

  ‘What kind of worm are you talking about?’

  ‘An RC-135, flying in close formation at the appropriate time.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hank.

  ‘We’ve got RCs—Cobra Balls—stationed at Eielson and staging out of Shemya. They’re a gift. They spend all day every day flying right up to Soviet airspace—sometimes even penetrating it. Makes the Russians crazy. Play it right and the Soviets will believe—because they’re paranoid and they’ll want to believe—that there’s a spy plane rather than a 747 on their screens heading for Kamchatka.’

  ‘What about Chun and his crew?’ Hank asked.

  Hamilton shrugged. ‘As far as they’re concerned, the RC-135 will be employed as a decoy to lure Russian defense assets away from them.’

  Hank nodded. ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said truthfully, though he was concerned about what Garret would think.

  ‘Why don’t you put this RC business to Roy? Feel him out,’ said Bilson with a perfect smile. He reminded Hank of an Armani mannequin.

  ‘Do you think he’ll have a problem?’

  ‘And if he does?’ Hank replied.

  ‘Then you’re not doing your job right, Hank.’

  June 23, 1983

  Norfolk, Virginia. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the waitress, her slight wrists straining under the weight of the platter she was holding.

  Garret took his elbows off the table, clearing the way. She lowered a massive lobster with claws as big as Muhammad Ali’s fists between his knife and fork.

  ‘Something to drink, sir?’

  The
offer conjured up a scotch, but this was lunch—wrong time of day. ‘Think I’ll stick with water for the moment.’

  ‘Oh-kay,’ she said, making a note on a small pad and walking away.

  Garret took in the view beyond the balcony: a marina with million-dollar yachts and cruisers bobbing at their moorings. The air smelled of diesel oil and salt.

  Hank swaggered through the door dressed in light green slacks, a green knitted shirt, white shoes.

  ‘Straight from the golf course?’ Garret asked as Hank approached the table.

  ‘The driving range. Golf’s too hard. I like to hit balls without having to give a shit where they go.’

  ‘That could be your motto, Hank.’

  The CIA agent grinned.

  ‘Why’d you suggest this place?’ Garret asked.

  The waitress appeared.

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ Hank said, pointing to the prostrate lobster on Garret’s plate. ‘And a bottle of . . . let me see . . .’ He flicked through the wine list and read out the name of a Napa Valley chardonnay. The waitress departed. ‘Where was I? Yeah, this place. Hard to find, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Very,’ said Garret.

  ‘So that’s why, pilgrim. You know what it’s like around DC. CIA seen out to lunch with NSA, people speculate. This place is out of the way. No one comes here.’ He gestured at the vacant tables. ‘Not on a Thursday, at least.’

  Garret pointed a bread knife at a cruiser piloted by a young man whose wife and young child had just gone below, its exhausts snarling as it maneuvered slowly through the narrow channel. ‘See that boat?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Can you read her name from here?’

  Hank stretched his neck. ‘Barnestormer.’

  ‘It belongs to New Hampshire Democratic Senator Barnesdale. And that’s his son up there on the bridge—Trent Barnesdale.’

  Hank’s humor evaporated. ‘Shit, that CNN fucker? Did he see us?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The point I’m trying to make here, Hank, is that there’s no such thing as an out-of-the-way place, especially this close to Washington. Now, why are we here?’

  ‘How’s our flight crew?’ Hank said.

  ‘They’ve taken the mission to heart. They believe they’re striking a blow for the free world. Hamilton has won their trust.’

  ‘Eric’s a good man.’

  ‘Why do I get the sense that you’re stalling?’

  ‘Something’s come up.’

  ‘Really.’

  Hank’s lobster arrived on its stainless-steel oval plate. The waitress struggled to set it down, and returned a moment later with the wine and two glasses. There was the usual bottle-opening and tasting ritual, during which Garret stared out impatiently at the marina.

  ‘They want insurance,’ Hank said finally.

  ‘Who’s “they”, Hank?’

  ‘Bilson, the Judge, Meese . . . I don’t know. Maybe the President.’

  ‘What kind of insurance?’

  ‘Some suggestions were kicked around with Hamilton.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘Get on with it, Hank,’ said Garret with naked anger.

  ‘They want an RC to rendezvous with the Koreans in the buffer zone, on the edge of Soviet radar. They want to confuse the issue.’

  Garret digested the implications of this. He didn’t like them. ‘Getting a Cobra Ball involved, bringing the Air Force into the loop. That’s a mistake.’

  ‘It’s not a suggestion, Roy.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Hank shrugged and took another look at the marina.

  ‘While we’re here there’s something I want to talk to you about, Hank.’ Garret bent down and picked a folder out of the briefcase by his foot, then placed it beside his plate. ‘At the NSA, we’re wizards when it comes to electronics. It’s what we do. People can erase and shred all they like, but if someone somewhere makes any kind of digital record, we can get at it. That’s the power of computers, and right now we’re on the cusp of an information revolution. You know anything about computers, Hank?’

  ‘Do I look like I would?’

  Garret smiled. ‘The day will come when all information as we know it will be committed to hard drives.’

  ‘What’s a hard drive?’

  ‘The NSA is about to leave the CIA and the FBI in the dust. Advancements in technology mean we’re on the verge of becoming the most powerful and invasive agency the world has ever known.’ Garret flipped open the file. ‘I’m telling you this because, Staff Sergeant (E-6) Henry Louis Buck, RA 3215684, former Green Beret, didn’t you say you were in the First Cavalry, a gunner? It says here you were trained as a sniper—and you were quite a good one apparently.’

  ‘My service record is classified,’ Hank said, agitated.

  Garret enjoyed the moment, lifting his eyes from the file to watch Hank squirm. ‘It was supposed to have been destroyed, right? Like I said, computers are about to change the world. Let’s talk about Project Phoenix.’

  ‘Phoenix was a long time ago.’

  ‘Only twelve years. The way time flies, it probably seems like only yesterday, right? Project Phoenix: the sanctioned assassination of suspected Viet Cong and North Vietnamese sympathizers operating in South Vietnam. Nice idea in theory, only some people went a little . . . overboard. Like you, for instance. July 12, 1971. Quang Tri. Ring a bell? A certain plantation owner and his wife and kids, remember? You know, stuff like this doesn’t look good in your employment history.’

  ‘We found tunnels,’ Hank said, lowering his voice. ‘The plantation owner was French. His operation had been left alone by the enemy for a reason. We found out he was harboring a high-ranking Viet Cong cadre.’

  ‘That’s what you reported, only it was well known that you wanted to screw the guy’s wife. You assaulted her. She filed a formal complaint with the US Military Assistance Command. Two weeks later the husband was found murdered, his throat slit. The wife was raped and murdered and the children—eight-year-old twins—were shot and left for dead. One of them survived.’

  ‘I was in another part of the country.’

  ‘Your alibi was cooked up. The kid picked your photo out of a book from her hospital bed. The following morning the hospital was bombed. A lot of people—our own people—died along with the witness.’

  ‘Wounded Viet Cong prisoners were being treated there. We’d turned a couple of them. Their comrades found out and got even.’

  ‘Maybe someone told them.’

  ‘I was never implicated.’

  ‘That’s not what it says here,’ Garret said, tapping the folder lightly with an index finger.

  Hank stared at the vanilla-colored article. ‘Are you thinking of holding that over me, Roy?’ He looked at Garret, unblinking. ‘You think the people I work for now give a shit? Look at what’s on the table with our Korean friends. What you’ve got there is nothing more than a further recommendation.’

  ‘This is not about blackmail, Hank. You just need to know what you’re dealing with. I know more about you than you know about me, which makes me unpredictable.’ Garret took one of the lobster’s massive claws and wound it in a circle until the shell cracked. He ripped it from the body. ‘Keep that in mind next time you have a meeting with Des behind my back, pilgrim.’

  September 1, 1983

  Anchorage International Airport, Alaska. ‘It’s 2:35 in the morning, what did you expect?’ Hatsuto Sato said to his wife, Nami. ‘She’s not going to wake up and say goodbye.’ Their daughter, Akiko, lay asleep in his arms, eyelashes like little caterpillars.

  Nami brushed the hair from Akiko’s forehead, kissed her and smelled her skin, fragrant with youth. ‘I will see you in a week, little Kimba,’ she whispered, missing her daughter already, nuzzling the child. ‘And I will bring you a present from your great-grandmother.’

  ‘I know you don’t want to think about it,’ Hatsuto said, ‘but your
grandmother could be annoying her ancestors in person before you get there, which would make this trip a waste of time and money.’

  ‘I know, so please . . . I feel guilty enough already. But what can I do? I am all the family she has. If Grandmother dies alone, I will never forgive myself.’

  ‘Maybe she’s not sick at all,’ said Hatsuto. ‘This could just be a plan to get you away from me. She never liked me.’

  ‘It’s not her fault that she’s old and ill.’ Nami kissed Hatsuto on the cheek. ‘And of course she likes you.’

  ‘We did better than that in the hotel last night,’ he complained.

  ‘Shhh.’ Nami glanced around, embarrassed.

  ‘Hey, there’s only us and the potted plants, and they won’t blush.’

  ‘Akiko might hear us.’

  ‘Nonsense. Kiss my lips, woman, and this time give me a little tongue.’

  Nami giggled and gave Hatsuto a kiss more like the one he was expecting.

  Akiko stirred in his arms, snuggling deeper into his chest. ‘What’s your flight number again? KAL 007 or 015?’ Hatsuto asked, shuffling sideways across the airport carpet. He leaned around the corner to get a better view of the departures board in the main area of the hall. Two Korean Air Lines flights were scheduled to depart within fourteen minutes of each other.

  ‘It’s the one leaving at 3 a.m.’

  ‘KAL 007. Your gate is 2N and the flight has been delayed, though the “now boarding” sign is lit. I’m sure they’ll make up the time en route, but even if you arrive as scheduled, you won’t have much time in Seoul to make the Sapporo connection,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to hurry when you land.’

  ‘I know. I’m still not sure whether I have a seat. It hasn’t been confirmed.’

  ‘You might just end up waiting around in Kimpo.’

  ‘This was the earliest flight I could get. If I waited till morning, I might be too late. Please let’s not go through all this again. You could be coming with me.’

  Hatsuto sighed. ‘Time to go. You have to clear immigration.’

  ‘There’s still time,’ said Nami.