The Zero Option

by David Rollins

  ‘So, no ideas on how we might get a look around?’

  Grundy massaged his chin. ‘At the very least, you’ll need some serious connections. Do you know President Medvedev or Prime Minister Putin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I don’t like your chances. There’s a KGB museum in the Lubyanka. Have a snoop around there. It’s practically the only point of friendly contact the old Soviet world has with the general public.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Just what you’d expect. A trip down memory lane of favorite methods of torture, assassination and espionage.’

  ‘What if we strike out there?’

  ‘Then you’re screwed. I don’t know . . . Run an ad. If you do manage to get a look at the records on some kind of pretext, I’d watch out for prisoners processed as a group between the seventh to the fifteenth of September, 1983. If you find a cluster of admissions, that’ll be suggestive. If you’re real lucky, you might even get the names of a few of those camps.’

  Jerome sat back in his chair. He was frowning, conflicted about something.

  ‘You know, assuming your tape is real—and I’m sure it is—it says that the whole episode was a massive conspiracy aimed at bringing down the Soviet Union. In retrospect, you’d have to say it worked. Two hundred and sixty-nine lives traded for world peace? The imminent threat of global thermonuclear war lifted? You weren’t alive then. Trust me, I’m thinking it was a fair trade . . .’

  ‘I know one person in particular who’d disagree with you.’

  ‘I’m sure I could find more who wouldn’t. The people who cooked up the whole operation and double-triple-quadruple-guessed the Soviet reactions were strategic geniuses.’

  ‘Here you go, guys.’

  It was Tiffany, interrupting with a drinks tray. Ben grinned up at her, glad for the momentary diversion, and got a smile straight back.

  ‘I have to go,’ Ben whispered in Tiffany’s ear.

  She made a sound like, ‘Do you have to?’ and then promptly went back to sleep, turning toward him and hugging her pillow.

  He kissed her lightly on her tangled strawberry hair, tied his remaining shoelace, and slipped quietly away.

  It was still dark outside, though the sky was lightening off to the east. Sunrise around 7 a.m., he guessed. He hailed a cab and headed for the airport, doing the math. He’d stopped drinking at ten. It would take a while to log the flight plan and perform the pre-flight checks, so takeoff would be a little after 8 a.m. That made it over ten hours. He hadn’t drunk too much, but he still felt pretty wiped out. As it turned out, Tiffany hadn’t wanted to talk all that much about flying. She’d had other things in mind.

  September 6, 1983

  New York City, New York. Roy Garret found a clear spot by the wall and leaned against it. There was standing room only in the United Nations Security Council chamber, every square inch of remaining carpet occupied by aides, assistants, lobbyists, UN diplomatic personnel, and media. The atmosphere reminded him of the type of collective voyeurism usually reserved for public hangings and celebrity trials.

  In the center of the auditorium, the permanent representatives had all taken their seats at the horseshoe-shaped table, and were adjusting their headsets through which they’d hear a translation of the day’s proceedings.

  The crowd stirred as several video screens were brought into the chamber and set up at strategic points around the room, positioned for the news cameras. Oleg Troyanovsky, the USSR’s Security Council representative, glanced over his shoulder at the activity going on behind him with the look of someone being followed down a dark alley.

  The session was scheduled to start and the US ambassador to the United Nations, Jeanne Kirkpatrick, sifted through the papers in front of her. She was continuing the debate begun by Charles Lichenstein on September 2, twenty-four hours after the Soviet attack on KAL 007. Now, Clark, Meese and Burt, satisfied that world opinion was on the US side, were comfortable about releasing more information and Kirkpatrick had been preselected as the messenger. The presence of the video screens indicated that she had quite a show planned, and in fact the White House had issued an earlier statement saying that a 55-minute unedited tape of the Soviet fighter pilots’ air-to-ground transmissions would be released.

  Garret glanced around the room, noting quite a few faces he recognized in the crowd, eventually finding the one he was after. He eased his way through the press of bodies to the far side of the gathering. ‘What did Des have to say?’ he asked under his breath.

  ‘Hey, I saw you over on the other side. I waved,’ Hank said. ‘Come to witness the evisceration, huh?’

  ‘The missing radar tape. What was Des’s reaction?’

  ‘Forget Des.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Des is looking for God on some hill in Vermont.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s dying. He has a virus. Something-immuno-something-or-other. He contracted pneumonia. They’ve given him a month.’

  Garret thought back to the last time he’d seen Clark’s chief aide. The guy’s tan had looked like badly applied make-up, and he realized he’d known the man was sick.

  ‘They’re calling it the gay virus,’ said Hank.

  Garret was surprised. ‘Des was a faggot?’

  ‘Hid it well. So we’ll be working together a lot more from now on.’

  ‘Gee whiz.’

  ‘I thought you’d be happy.’

  ‘The tape. Anything?’

  ‘I looked into it. Things go missing all the time. It’s a big organization. And there’s the cultural barrier to contend with at Wakkanai. The tape’s probably just fallen between the cracks.’

  ‘Sounds like a whole lot of wishful thinking to me,’ said Garret. ‘You’re saying that we just forget about it and hope for the best?’

  ‘Unless you’ve got a better plan. They’re looking at everyone, especially the radar operators who were on duty last Thursday, but, so far, nothing.’

  The session opened and the crowd fell silent. US Ambassador Kirkpatrick was given the floor for the opening address. She stood, holding her glasses in one hand in the event that she’d need them. She let her eyes roam around the chamber before commencing, finally settling them on Ambassador Troyanovsky.

  ‘Most of the world outside the Soviet Union,’ she began, ‘has heard by now of Korean Air Lines Flight 007, carrying 269 persons between New York and Seoul, which strayed off course into Soviet airspace, was tracked by Soviet radar, and was targeted by a Soviet SU-15 whose pilot, coolly and after careful consultation, fired two air-launched missiles that destroyed the plane and, apparently, its 269 passengers and crew.

  ‘This calculated attack on a civilian airliner—unarmed, undefended, as civilian airliners always are—has shocked the world.

  ‘Only the Soviet people have still not heard about the attack on KAL 007 and the death of the passengers, because the Soviet government has not acknowledged firing on the Korean airliner. Indeed, not until September 5 did Soviet officials acknowledge that KAL 007 had disappeared in its icy waters.’

  Garret looked around the chamber. The crowd was enthralled at the spectacle of the superpowers duking it out on the world stage. Forget Broadway, he thought, this is the best show in town.

  Ambassador Kirkpatrick made eye contact with one of the news teams as she said, ‘Immediately following my presentation, the Russian-to-English transcript will be made available to all who may wish to study it. After this session of the Security Council, an audio cassette on which voices are still clearer will be provided to any interested mission.

  ‘Nothing was cut from this tape. The recording was made on a voice-actuating recorder and, therefore, covers only those periods of time when conversation was heard.’

  The chamber filled with a crackling sound, followed by garbled exchanges in Russian, the sound laden with static and electrical interference. It was difficult to decipher, but Garret already knew every word. Several gasps were heard
among the audience as the tape played out to its violent conclusion. Throughout, the expression on Troyanovsky’s face shifted back and forth between concentration and disdain.

  The audio presentation ended.

  ‘That didn’t sound like fifty-five minutes to me,’ whispered Hank.

  Garret checked his watch: only ten minutes had passed. ‘They’ve edited out the dead air between the exchanges.’

  ‘Didn’t she say, “Nothing has been cut from this tape”?’

  ‘I’d call dead air “nothing”. What would you call it?’

  ‘Those politicians sure have a way with words, don’t they?’

  ‘The transcript we have heard needs little explanation,’ the ambassador continued, her voice cutting into the stunned silence. ‘Quite simply, it establishes that the Soviets decided to shoot down this civilian airliner, shot it down, murdering the 269 persons aboard, and lied about it.

  ‘The transcript of the pilot’s cockpit conversations illuminates several key points. The interceptor that shot KAL 007 down had the airliner in sight for over twenty minutes before firing its missiles. Contrary to what the Soviets have repeatedly stated, the interceptor saw the airliner’s navigation lights and reported that fact to the ground on three occasions.’

  That’s stretching it, thought Garret. He believed that when the Soviet pilot had mentioned lights, he’d been referring to his own lights and not, as the translation on the videotape had helpfully included in brackets, ‘the target’s’.

  ‘Contrary to Soviet statements,’ Kirkpatrick continued, ‘the pilot makes no mention of firing any warning shots, only the firing of the missiles, which he said struck “the target”.’

  Garret switched his attention back to Troyanovsky to see how he was reacting to Kirkpatrick’s assertions, because, on the very tape just played, with a little judicious filtering of the interference, the intercepting pilot would clearly be heard telling his ground controller that he had selected cannon and fired warning bursts ahead of ‘the target’—just as the Russians had claimed. Troyanovsky, however, sat stiff and mute.

  ‘Contrary to Soviet statements,’ said the ambassador, ‘there is no indication whatsoever that the interceptor pilot made any attempt either to communicate with the airliner or to signal for it to land in accordance with accepted practice. Indeed, the Soviet interceptor planes may be technically incapable of communicating by radio with civilian aircraft, presumably out of fear of Soviet pilot defections.’

  Another nice touch, thought Garret. In fact the Russian SU-15 did have such a radio, and the pilot had tried to communicate with 007 because Garret had heard it. Interesting. Obviously, the Russians must have decided that keeping their own communications practices secret was more important than giving anything away in their own defense.

  ‘Wouldn’t you hate to have this woman as your mother-in-law?’ whispered Hank. ‘She’s a goddamn terrier. You married?’

  Garret shook his head.

  ‘Me neither. At the moment I’m between threesomes.’

  ‘Shhh,’ whispered someone beside Hank.

  ‘We know the interceptor that shot down KAL 007 flew behind, alongside and in front of the airliner,’ said Kirkpatrick, looking around the chamber, ‘coming at least as close as two kilometers before dropping back behind the plane and firing its missiles. At a distance of two kilometers under the conditions prevailing at that time, it was easily possible to identify a 747 passenger airliner. Either the Soviet pilot knew the Korean plane was a commercial airliner, or he did not know his target was a civilian passenger airliner. If the latter, then he fired his deadly missiles without knowing or caring what they would hit. Though he could easily have pulled up to within some number of meters of the airliner to assure its identity, he did not bother to do so. In either case, there was a shocking disregard for human life and international norms.’

  Ambassador Kirkpatrick paused, readied her notes and changed tone smoothly, like a Cadillac’s transmission shifting gears.

  ‘I’m going to head out and have a smoke,’ Garret said under his breath.

  ‘I thought you’d kicked the habit.’

  ‘I’ll mooch one.’

  Hank reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboros and his lighter and handed them over.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Garret. ‘Come get me when she’s done.’

  He made his way to the exit and slid through it. The foyer was relatively quiet, though knots of people had gathered around monitors set up here and there. Garret found a seat near a window, out of the way, and took out the smokes and lighter. He flicked the zippo open and closed a few times and enjoyed the sound it made, like a bolt in a rifle. He wanted a cigarette badly, but decided not to have one. Instead, he watched a four-pronged contrail high over the city, a fleck of twinkling silver at its head, and tried not to think about the 269 passengers and crew.

  Fifteen minutes later, snapping fingers echoing through the foyer brought him out of his trance. Garret glanced up and saw Hank beckoning him from a doorway. He got up and walked over.

  ‘The old battleaxe is wrapping up,’ said Hank.

  Garret handed him back his cigarettes and lighter. They re-entered the chamber in time to see Ambassador Kirkpatrick gathering up her notes, her final words hanging in the air like the echoes of a bell tolled in a church.

  The two men moved around the chamber to get a better view of the Soviets. Troyanovsky, the Russian ambassador, was gazing up at the ceiling, his index finger pushing the headset cup against his ear as the delayed translation finished up.

  Voices murmured through the chamber. Anticipation was in the air. How would the Soviets react?

  Rather than standing, Troyanovsky leaned forward in his seat, his shirt collar thickening his neck and making his face turn red and his eyes bulge like a toad’s. He adjusted his notes and read a statement, rarely looking up from it into the lenses of the television cameras focused on him. His accent was as thick as the Kremlin’s walls.

  ‘I applaud the US ambassador’s ability to take the facts and twist them,’ the female translator’s voice began, ‘for you have just experienced nothing more. Do not allow yourselves to be fooled. This is purely a propaganda campaign and its aim is to purchase an increase in the size of the defense budget sought by the Reagan administration.

  ‘We know that the flight path of the intruding aircraft was deliberate. It was cleverly crafted to monitor our air defense reaction. The Soviet Union is not the guilty party. These people lost their lives not because of the Soviet Union but because of the Cold War.

  ‘Today, we have all here been subjected to a provocative anti-Soviet spectacle; nothing more than an instrument of psychological warfare mounted by the US against the USSR. And it is well known that in the job of disinformation American propaganda has no equal.’

  His brief denouncement concluded, the Russian sat back, adjusted his collar and shared a few quiet words with the assistant seated behind him.

  ‘Is that it?’ Hank asked.

  ‘Looks like,’ replied Garret.

  ‘You think anyone believed him?’

  ‘That it was all our fault? No.’

  ‘Then I’d say we’ve done a damn good job.’

  The phone rang. Colonel Korolenko’s eyes sprang open. He’d been dozing at his desk. Sleep had been hard to come by these last few nights. He picked up the handset.

  ‘Colonel Korolenko?’ asked the voice down the line.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I have Comrade General Penkeyev for you.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Korolenko said, suddenly feeling as if his face had been splashed with ice water.

  ‘Valentin,’ came a familiar voice. ‘How are you? Recovered yet from our marathon session with the delights of the distilled potato?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade General. It was most enjoyable. Your hospitality is boundless.’

  ‘Thank you for your warm note of thanks, and for the caviar, of course.’

  ‘Not at all, Com
rade General.’

  Korolenko had sent the general several tins of the black Beluga caviar he was said to favor. It was always wise to cultivate a potential patron when such an opportunity presented itself.

  ‘I wanted to call and give you the news,’ said the general. ‘I’ve just received word from Moscow. On the news tonight, a TASS statement will put an end to speculation. It will confirm that in the early hours of September 1, a Soviet interceptor fired upon an intruder aircraft believed to have been a reconnaissance aircraft performing specialist tasks.’

  ‘Good news, then, Comrade General.’

  ‘I thought you’d think so, Valentin. If I were you, I would make arrangements to transport your important cargo as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Korolenko, suddenly charged with energy. ‘And thank you, Comrade General.’

  ‘Not at all, Valentin. Perhaps you can wring some profit from this disaster for us.’

  ‘I will certainly try, Comrade General.’

  ‘Good,’ said Penkeyev, and the connection broke off.

  January 29, 2012

  NSA HQ, Fort Meade, Maryland. Investigator Englese strode across the parking lot, still furious over the way the arrest of the corrupt DEA agent had gone down in El Paso. It had been a damn fiasco. The bent agent had somehow received word of the bust at the last moment. He’d left his home and was climbing into an Agency four-by-four when the DEA and FBI agents closed in on him. Oh, and let’s not forget NSA Investigator Miller Sherwood, thought Lana, who’d somehow managed to strap on a set of FBI body armor and a DEA 9 mm Sig-Sauer P228 sidearm.

  The agents had fanned out and surrounded the suspect in the parking lot. He knew he had nowhere to go, except perhaps to a federal correctional facility where he’d be welcomed by the Aryan Brotherhood, among others. So the suspect had had a brain fart and taken himself prisoner. It was almost comical, like something out of a Will Ferrell movie. He was surrounded, and so he’d stuck his own firearm under his chin and threatened to pull the trigger, unless he was given safe passage across the border and into one of the luxury Mercedes SUVs chauffeured by his Colombian associates. And that’s when Sherwood had shot him in the head. Just like that. It was a great shot, no doubt about it, but that was hardly the point. There were hostage negotiators who could have been brought in, psychologists . . . But Sherwood was pumped up on testosterone and untrained for the situation he found himself in. There’d be an investigation, of course, to determine whether it was a righteous shoot. And there was also the outstanding matter of who’d tipped off the now dead DEA agent in the first place, spooking him into making a run for it.