Blowback, p.16
Blowback, page 16
He stays quiet.
“Still trying to be the stoic CIA officer, right?”
The man’s smile grows wider. “First time I’ve ever gone face-to-face with a CIA agent. Knowingly, that is. I’m sure I’ve run into some of your chaps at embassy parties and other random events. All working under some sort of diplomatic or industrial cover.”
Benjamin says, “I like your accent. British, it sounds.”
Wanquan nods. “Not bad,” he says. “You have a good ear for language. I suppose growing up in San Francisco helped, with all the different Chinese from Taiwan to the mainland and Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia…but for me, it was Hong Kong. I spent my formative years there, thanks to my father, a wealthy banker in Shanghai.”
Wanquan puts his hands on his knees. “And Hong Kong is where I grew to hate you, Benjamin Lucas.”
“Why me?” he asks, confused. “I’m not even British.”
A laugh. “Sorry, old habit. No, that’s where I learned to hate the West, for how they had humiliated us and had stolen Hong Kong and the New Territories.”
“Britain returned it to your control nearly thirty years ago,” Benjamin says, wondering just what in hell is going on with this slim man from the Ministry of State Security. “Still carrying a grudge?”
He says, “Many of us in positions of authority and power have been holding grudges for what the West did to us, even when it was centuries ago. Now, after all these years of oppression, we’re taking our rightful position in the world. We started with Hong Kong, and soon, we will have Taiwan back, and the rest of the Pacific will belong to us, either overtly or covertly.”
Wanquan pauses. “Hong Kong…my father thought they would teach me manners, grace, and how to fit into a culture that prizes business and profits above all else. And you know what I learned? I learned they hated us from the Mainland. Thought we were barbarians. Not waiting in queues like ladies and gentlemen. Spitting on the sidewalk. Pissing in alleyways.”
He rustles around in the paper bag.
Benjamin says, “I didn’t realize captivity includes a history seminar.”
“Oh, it doesn’t,” he says. “But you remind me of Hong Kong. Arrogant, above it all, part of the West. They thought they could remain alone and aloof, with their own laws and way of life, while under our governance and protection. They were wrong.”
Benjamin sees now what’s attached to the polished wooden handle sticking out of Chang’s paper bag.
It’s a cricket bat, flat and heavy-looking.
“One of the sports I was forced to learn in Hong Kong was cricket. Can you imagine that? Me, a child of a wealthy member of the Party, learning to play the game of our enemy? And nobody plays cricket in the Middle Kingdom. Nobody.”
He expertly spins it in the air. “Father thought I would be more like Hong Kong when I came back. Open to business, democracy, what you in the West call essential freedoms. He was wrong. I wanted nothing more than revenge against that renegade island. My good friend Han Yuanchao, who believes he is in charge of this operation, thinks that when the time comes, you will be freed with little or no discomfort.”
Benjamin takes a breath, focuses, knows what’s coming, stands up just as Wanquan moves toward him.
“Like Father, Yuanchao is wrong. You need to be punished. If you are ever returned to America, I want to ensure that you bear the wounds of those who go against us.”
The cricket bat snaps at his head. Benjamin blocks it with his wrist, but the jolt stuns him, and despite his training and experience, in a few minutes, he’s on the floor, the thick wooden bat hitting him, harder and harder, until he blacks out.
CHAPTER 53
ALDO SLOAN SAYS, “What now, Noa?”
“Now?” she says. “For the moment, the president has halted our operations, and those of our overseas group. That gives us some time.”
“To do what?”
Noa says, “For you and the others, time to hire your own lawyers. Unless there’s divine intervention from whatever god or goddess is out there, BOHICA time is coming. Be prepared, lawyer up, and you and the others have my permission to toss me under whichever Metro bus is closest. I hate to use this phrase because of its origin, but you were following my orders.”
“But you were following President Barrett’s orders.”
Noa freshens her drink. BOHICA: Bend Over, Here It Comes Again. A Vietnam War–era phrase that has lasted for decades, meaning those folks in the field—military or intelligence—are going to be the sacrificial lambs once again to protect the ones issuing orders.
“That’s right, and at some point, some congressional oversight committee is going to determine that his orders were illegal, and whoever followed his orders should have known better.”
“Why don’t you get the story out first?”
“Leak?” she says. “Not going to happen. Plus, the president has something he’s holding over me. A nice clear video of me executing a wounded prisoner in CIA custody.”
Aldo says, “What? Surveillance camera?”
“A drone, it looked like.”
He says, “Noa, you made a tough decision. There was nothing else you could have done. That Quds terrorist was dying. Bringing him to a civilian hospital was not an option. Besides, there was a good chance that he’d probably die even if we did get him there. If it was an execution, it was a battlefield operation against a known terrorist who shot first.”
Noa smiles. “I love your attitude and support, Aldo, but getting a jury of twelve in Virginia to agree with your thoughts are nil.”
“What are you going to do?”
“First,” she says, getting her phone in her hands, “some photos, just in case the evidence you found disappears at some point.”
Noa takes photos of the mystery woman picking up Otterson’s envelopes.
“If it does, I’m being disappeared as well.”
“You’re too big to disappear, friend,” she says, as she puts the phone down. “Meanwhile, I’m going to lawyer up myself, I suppose,” she says. “It’s coming, one way or another. Once Director Abrams gets her footing and starts digging and asking questions, she is going ballistic, and shit is going to fly, and you know how shit all flows downhill in circumstances like this.”
“Well,” Aldo says, gathering up the photos and reports. “I’m not lawyering up, not quite yet.” He taps a thick finger on the original photo of Donna Otterson and the unidentified woman who three times retrieved drop-offs.
He says, “I’m going to find out who this woman is, and what in hell Otterson was passing over that made her want to kill herself. I mean, she was a finance resource officer, for God’s sake. What kind of classified information could she have that was so important to pass on, and to end in her suicide?”
“You don’t have to do it, Aldo.”
He puts the rest of the photographs away. “Not an option, Noa, and I can tell you, the rest of the team feels the same way. We’re together on this, and there’s no bus out there that we’re going to toss you under. So don’t worry about that.”
Noa takes one more swallow of her drink. Sharp and cold, she finds it refreshing, and she says, “Good. That leaves me with a host of other things to worry about.”
“Such as?”
“Such as President Barrett has been giving us mission packages because of the people in the Agency who are still personally loyal to him,” she says.
“That’s obvious.”
“Sure is,” she says, “and what else is obvious is that he still has people at the Pentagon and elsewhere who are loyal to him as well. He’s told me that he believes the Fates or divine providence—not the American people—made him president. Besides our two CIA teams, what else could POTUS be up to, using Navy or Air Force assets?”
Aldo’s voice is bleak. “I don’t want to even think about it.”
Noa says, “Wish I had that luxury.”
CHAPTER 54
Aboard the USS Dan Healy
East China Sea
COMMANDER JAKE UNGER, commanding officer of the USS Dan Healy (DDG-129), is in his cabin this early morning at five, mug of coffee at his elbow, when there’s a knock on the door.
“Enter,” he calls out. The heavy door swings open and his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Natalie Chung, comes in, folder under her arm, wearing an officer’s khaki uniform, just like his.
She says, “Captain, I’ve got the preliminary on the test mission,” as she puts the folder down on his clean and orderly desk.
“And?” he asks, opening the folder, glancing at the formal report and attachments.
“The first test Tomahawk we fired was perfect, flew past all the designated waypoints and true to the target latitude and longitude, just off that Philippine island.”
He looks up. “Meaning the second Tomahawk wasn’t perfect.”
“No, sir,” she says. Natalie is second-generation Korean American, is a good XO, tough but fair, and he’s been impressed with her since she arrived aboard ship two months ago.
“What happened?”
“The Raytheon Technologies team is still reviewing the telemetry and other information, sir,” she says. “It appears it flew along the programmed route, started a sudden descent, and that’s when we lost all contact, about ten minutes after launch. Early indications seem to suggest an engine failure, and she splashed down about thirty nautical miles out. Even the two E-2 Hawkeyes following the test lost it at the same time.”
“Our Chinese Navy escort still in the area?”
“Yes, sir,” she says. “The watch told me that the Type 815G electronic surveillance ship is still about five nautical miles to the west, maintaining their distance.”
“Maybe they know what happened,” he says, “but they won’t tell us, will they?”
His XO smiles. “Not likely, sir.”
He thinks it through. The Dan Healy is here on two missions: officially, to test the latest Block VI Tomahawk cruise missile variant capable of stealthy, low-altitude flight to avoid detection; unofficially, to “show the flag” in this part of the East China Sea. The goddamn Chinese PLA Navy was starting to think these waters were their personal lakes, and his ship and others were determined to show them otherwise.
“All right, Natalie,” he says. “From here and now, it’s Raytheon’s problem, not ours. Looks like this new version needs some tweaks. Lucky for all, that Tomahawk is probably still sinking to the bottom of the ocean.”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
“Okay, thanks, XO,” he says, going back to the folder.
“Yes, sir,” and she leaves his cabin.
CHAPTER 55
Jieyang, Guangdong Province
ZHANG DELUN OF the State Grid Corporation of China is up early this morning, desperately trying to take control of the situation here in Jieyang. Approximately thirty minutes ago, a good part of his city of more than one million people went dark. He’s at one of the city’s main electrical switchyards, trying to figure out what the hell has just happened. There had been no electrical storms, no loss of power stations, and no collapse of transmission lines.
Just a quick flick and the lights went out.
Lights powered by portable generators are starting to illuminate the scene. Workers carrying flashlights and wearing yellow slickers and hard hats and orange safety vests are streaming into the switchyard, and Yang Jing, also from the State Grid Corporation, comes up to him, phone up to his ear.
“Look at this.”
Delun aims his flashlight at Jing’s hand. It looks like Jing is holding…what?
Some very fine strands of…thread? Silk?
He gently touches the material, and instantly knows what it is.
Graphite.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers.
A black utility van comes in, slides to a stop. It’s followed by two others.
From the lead van a uniformed military officer comes forward, with another man wearing a dark, two-piece suit. Each are carrying phones in their hands. The man with the suit looks determined yet friendly, but the military officer—Shit, is that man a general?—Delun thinks with terror, spotting epaulettes with two large yellow stars and a wreath on his broad shoulders. The man comes up to him and says, “Are you the engineer in charge?”
“Yes, sir, Zhang Delun, of the State Grid Corporation.”
“What happened here?” he asks.
“Sir, approximately thirty-five minutes ago, the electrical grid suffered massive failures at three switchyards and one substation.”
The general growls. “At the same time?”
“Yes, sir.”
The civilian says, “Any idea of the cause?”
Delun gestures Jing to come forward, and he holds out his hand. The general says. “What am I looking at?”
“Graphite fibers, sir,” Delun explains. “Enough graphite fibers like this, distributed over sensitive sites like a switching station or substation, can cause it to fail, creating a power blackout.”
The civilian peers down. “And how are these graphite fibers distributed?”
Dejiang swallows. His mouth is dry. “Considering how many sites were struck, and at the same time, I would think…er, I would say, that a series of bombs, sir. From a ground attack, perhaps. Hidden mortars. Or tossed grenades.”
The general says, “Or from the air. Like the Americans did to the Iraqis, and NATO did to the Serbs. An act of war, this is.”
The civilian says, “How long before power can be restored here?”
Delun feels sweat trickling down his back. “Normally, a day or two, but…”
The general snaps, “But what?”
The sweat down his back seems to flow faster. “Sir, some of these switchyards needed vital equipment insulated just to prepare for such an event. Two years have passed since the request was made for such an upgrade. If the insulation had been installed, power could be returned in a day. Now…depending on the damages, perhaps up to a week, sir.”
In the harsh illumination from the spotlights, the general looks like he’s about to explode, but Delun is pleasantly surprised when the civilian smiles and says, “A week?”
“A week, sir.”
The civilian takes out a thin black leather wallet, extracts a business card, hands it over. Zhang Delun examines it in the light.
It has a name—Huang Zemin—and a phone number.
He says, “Call me at any time, night or day, to get the personnel and equipment you need, or to override any fool who is causing you trouble. If you can restore power in two days or less, you will be handsomely rewarded. Have I made myself clear?”
Delun is afraid to move, afraid his hand holding the business card might tremble.
“Extremely clear, sir,” he says, and Huang, the civilian, gives him a gentle slap to the shoulder and says, “Now, we mustn’t keep you from your vital work.”
The civilian Huang Zemin—whom Delun is convinced belongs to one of the security forces—walks away with the general, talking between themselves, and the general raises his voice once more, saying, “An act of war, and I will report it as such!”
His worker Jing, still grasping the graphite filaments, says, “What just happened?”
Delun says, “I’ve just made the best friend in the world, or the worst enemy.”
“How will you know?” comes the puzzled question.
Delun says, “If the lights come back on Wednesday, and not Thursday.”
CHAPTER 56
Langley, Virginia
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams touches her desk once again, like a holy talisman passing on power and knowledge, here, on the nearly sacred seventh floor of CIA headquarters. She is here, she has made it, despite the long hours, the trips away from home, her two divorces and the knife scar along her left ribs from one busy night in Belgrade years back, and the many sleepless nights and nearly inedible meals.
She has made it.
Although a cautionary voice inside her whispers, Have we gotten here in time?
The door to her office opens and Jean Swantish, her deputy director, steps in, shaking her head.
“Still getting nothing from Beijing or their embassy about their capture of Benjamin Lucas. They’re polite but they have no interest in talking to you.”
Hannah taps her fingers on her desk. “What do you think their game plan is? Why the delay?”
Jean sits down across from her, notebook in hand. They first met years back during training here and at Camp Perry and other secret training sites on the East Coast, and their respective careers have steamed along in parallel, like two old cruise ships pacing each other out in the seas.
In those years they’ve watched out for each other, have passed along tips and information on job openings and shitty supervisors, and Jean has done the same “night soil circuit” Hannah has done, taken every crap Third World assignment offered.
According to her personnel file, Jean is fifty-one, single, with thick brown hair, but Hannah also knows that hidden behind her dark-gray slacks, white blouse, and dark-blue jacket is a long, furrowed scar across her belly, courtesy of a Boko Haram gunman in Nigeria.
Deputy directors usually don’t serve as the director’s immediate right-hand person, but Hannah has ideas on how she’s going to run things, and Jean is a vital part of it.
Jean smiles brightly, says, “I could make a joke about the inscrutable Chinese, but besides being racist, it’s a lousy joke. They’re up to something. We just don’t know…for now.”
Hannah says, “But it was a straight exfil mission. Benjamin Lucas was captured by the Chinese, his old college friend was shot at the scene, and…nothing. There wasn’t anything particularly cutting-edge about the operation, was there?”
