Blowback, p.31
Blowback, page 31
“Still here, still driving. Let’s talk more later, okay?”
“Once you got me out of my cell, you had a confrontation with someone…I’m pretty sure it was Chang Wanquan. I recognized the bastard’s voice. And you rotated me. Why?”
“To block him from shooting me.”
Lin says, “What?”
“You were captured for a reason, Benjamin. Meaning you were worth something. Me using you as a barrier made that guy hesitate for a couple of seconds. All I needed.”
Another traffic light, another stop.
“Good call,” Benjamin says.
“Thanks.”
“Wait,” Lin says. “You shot Chang Wanquan?”
“Well, I was thinking of giving him a kiss to surprise him into stepping back, but I couldn’t get my face mask off with just one hand. Why are you complaining after what you did back there at the gate?”
The light changes.
He resumes their quick drive.
About seven minutes later Lin says, “Hold on, you’re going the wrong way! You’re supposed to be heading north on the M1, not south.”
Liam drives with his eyes flickering from the side mirror, to the rearview mirror, and then the other side mirror. So far so good, but for how long?
“Just a bit of tradecraft, that’s all.”
Lin says, “You do what we planned.”
“Sorry, I don’t remember the ‘we’ part, Lin. You were just giving orders. This isn’t your op. It’s mine. Hold on.”
He takes an exit off the M1, slows down, and in another minute, Liam is slowly driving through the crowded parking lot of the Kelvin Village Shopping Centre. He goes up one row and then another, until he spots a black Jeep Cherokee with a neon-orange flyer stuck in a windshield wiper.
Liam pulls into a near space, switches off the engine.
Lin says, “What is this?”
“Change of vehicles,” he says, opening the door. “I’m sure you gave this Mercedes a clean sweep earlier, but I didn’t do it, so I don’t trust the results. Hurry along.”
He walks over to the Cherokee, finds the key fob in a small magnetic box under the driver’s-side rear tire, pulls it free. Back at Director Abrams’s residence, before he left, she promised she could help in a few areas, like this transportation. He unlocks the Cherokee, brings his gear to the rear of the vehicle, and helps Lin and Benjamin get into the rear seat.
Lin says, “What the hell is this?”
Liam is happy to see two shoeboxes and clothing in plastic bags. “New shoes and clothing for both of you. Don’t take your time changing. I’ll close the door for privacy. I’m not taking the chance that tracers are in your clothes.”
He shuts the door.
Looks up into the cool June sky.
Nothing airborne up there yet.
Maybe he’s being too cautious, but that’s like saying there’s too much bacon.
No one in the Agency ever says those words.
Lin opens the door, passes over a bulging plastic bag, which he tosses into the trunk of the Mercedes, and in a few minutes, he’s driving the Cherokee and his two passengers back south on the M1.
Lin says, “You’re still driving the wrong way.”
“If you mean I’m driving away from your safe house, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Benjamin speaks up. “Liam…you can trust her…”
“No, I can’t,” he says. “Even with her shooting those two armed men back there. A good sign but I’m inherently suspicious, sorry. We’re about an hour away from my safe house, which I can vouch for. In the meantime, Lin, get working on your end of the deal.”
“What?”
“Your man is rescued,” he says. “Time to make the call, to give up what’s ailing the vice president.”
“No,” she says.
Liam feels something hard and cold punch his chest. If this was all a lie and a setup, just to get Benjamin freed without the quid pro quo of saving the vice president, he’s about ten seconds from coming to a halt, opening the rear door, and shoving her out onto the busy highway.
“Better explain yourself, and now,” he says.
Lin says, “Once we’re safely in place at your facility, knowing we’ve not been followed, then I will make the call. Not sooner.”
Liam chews his lower lip.
Lin says, “Don’t like being on the other end, now, do you?”
He keeps quiet, just looking at the time, converting it to what must be early morning back in the District of Columbia.
Just what in hell might be going on back at home?
CHAPTER 113
IN HER HOME office in Georgetown, CIA Director Hannah Abrams is focused on the clock on her desk, a gift from years back from the head of MI6. It’s a piece of tourist kitsch, the Big Ben clock and tower, done up in red, white, and blue, with a grinning bulldog sitting at its base.
Jean Swantish says, “Staring at it won’t make it go any faster.”
“It should,” she says. “Liam’s been on the ground for nearly a day, and not a word.”
“That’s what you wanted,” Jean says. “For him to stay mission silent until he had Benjamin and the medical information for the vice president.”
The clock says it’s approaching eight a.m.
“Will it chime when it hits the top of the hour?”
Hannah says, “Thank God, no.”
Then she smiles, taps the tower. “Test time. What is this?”
Jean says, “More like trick time. It’s Big Ben, right?”
Hannah says, “Ha, I have you! Nope, Big Ben is the name of the clock. The name of the tower is the Elizabeth Tower. Even when everything is widely known, it can also still be wrong. Good thing to remember.”
She keeps on looking at the clock, but there’s a knock at the door, making her jump. Keep your cool, girl, you’re almost as jumpy as when you spent your first night at the Farm, wondering and dreading what was coming for you in the months ahead.
“Come in,” she says.
Ralph comes in, face tense. “Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“We’re under attack.”
CHAPTER 114
THERE’VE BEEN SOME sharp words between Liam Grey and Lin, who is gently caressing Benjamin’s forehead, but Benjamin doesn’t care. He’s lying down in the rear of the Cherokee, and even with the aches, throbs, and jolts of pain, he feels like he’s in bliss. His legs are twisted some but his head is in Lin’s lap. She looks down at him and smiles, her eyes filled with tears.
She whispers, “See, I told you I’d get you out.”
“You did,” he whispers back. “What now?”
“We leave South Africa. Liam says he will take care of it.”
“I’m sure,” he says. “You can trust him on that.”
The Cherokee hits a pothole and Benjamin gasps with pain. She strokes his forehead again. He says, “When you say ‘we,’ you mean me, Liam, and you, right?”
Lin smiles, touches her lips with two fingers, gently presses them against his lips.
“Yes, Benjamin, that’s exactly what I mean.”
Liam drives, staying on a straight route, but every several minutes, taking an unplanned exit or turn, glancing at the rearview and side mirrors, checking for ground surveillance.
No.
So far, so good.
The city has given way to the countryside, with lots of farms and low trees and brush. Following the narrow two-lane R563 state road, they enter the small farming village of Hekpoort, about sixty klicks northwest of Johannesburg. At a dirt road next to a service station, Liam makes a left. The land is reddish dirt with some trees and barbed-wire fencing, with a mountain range to the north.
He says, “Sorry, Benjamin, it’s going to be bumpy for a bit.”
Lin says, “I’m holding him. He’ll be all right.”
Liam keeps his view moving left and right as they go down the remote road, until a small, one-story wood-and-dark-stone farmhouse comes into view, with an attached one-bay garage. He pulls the Cherokee into the garage, gets out, and swivels the door down.
The next few minutes are occupied with getting his gear into the interior of the cool house, as well as Benjamin and Lin. Liam helps Benjamin cross the stone floor and stretch out on a dusty couch near a fireplace. Throw rugs, heavy wooden chairs, and empty bookcases occupy the main room. A small kitchen is visible, along with two doors, one leading to a bathroom, and the other to a bedroom.
Snug and to the point, which is all they need, Liam thinks.
To Lin he says, “We weren’t followed, and we’ve safely arrived at this place. Time for you to seal the deal, complete your side of the bargain. Make the call.”
Lin says, “But I don’t have the number.”
Liam digs out his Agency-issued phone, thumbs the touch ID to bring it awake. He quickly scrolls through and finds the number for Director Abrams’s home, and pushes it.
“Here,” he says, passing the phone to Lin. “I’m calling Hannah Abrams, the CIA director. Be polite but get the damn message out.”
Lin takes the phone, holds it up to her ear, waits, and returns the phone to Liam.
“You must have misdialed,” she says. “It’s not ringing.”
“The hell I did.”
“Then you call,” she says.
Liam looks again at the number, then swipes the call feature.
He brings it up to his ear.
The phone rings once.
Then clicks off.
“Shit,” he says.
He does it again.
Same thing.
One ring and the call doesn’t go through.
He says, “Lin, you’ve got a phone?”
“Of course. A fresh burner so we couldn’t be traced.”
She pulls her device out of her purse and Liam displays the number for Director Abrams’s house.
Same thing.
Lin says, “Just rings once and signs off.”
“Damn it!” Liam says. He goes into the small kitchen, sees an old-fashioned phone up on the wall, complete with curling cord. He lifts the receiver and is relieved to hear a dial tone. Agency safe houses are equipped to receive—on zero notice—visitors in need of water, power, food, and now, most important, a landline.
Holding his Agency phone in one hand and cupping the receiver between his shoulder and right ear, he punches in the right sequence of numbers to get an international line to the United States.
There.
It rings once.
Twice.
He turns and smiles at Lin.
“I think we’re going to make it.”
The phone is answered. Liam hears a woman’s voice and says, “I need to speak to Director Abrams, right away.”
But the voice pays no attention.
“…no longer in service. No other information is available for this number. Good-bye.”
Click.
Liam slowly replaces the receiver back to the wall phone’s cradle.
“The director’s been blocked,” Liam says.
“Meaning?” Lin asks, while Benjamin looks up from the couch.
“She’s dead, disabled, or captured,” Liam says. “We’re on our own.”
CHAPTER 115
Joint Intelligence Center Pacific
Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
US NAVY LIEUTENANT Commander Cornelius Johnson is getting a cup of coffee in the small galley adjacent to the Pit when a scared-looking, young male ensign bursts in and says, “Sir, you need to come back, right away.”
Cornelius leaves his coffee mug on the counter and follows the ensign up the slight ramp that goes up to the balcony level that holds his desk and others, and that overlooks the large video display screens and computer monitors.
He gets two steps into the darkened room before he freezes, looking at the displays, at the blinking and rapidly moving indicators, trying to keep it all in, trying to absorb what he’s seeing.
His deputy, Marine Lieutenant Juanita Lopez, steps up to him, brown eyes worried. He says to her, “Lieutenant, please tell me that there’s been a mistake, that we’re watching a simulation, or a training exercise.”
“No, sir,” she says. “We’ve checked it twice. This is real time, this is happening.”
Breathe, he thinks, looking at the flashing indicators marking the military forces of the People’s Republic of China.
“Latest?” he asks.
“The PLA Navy is heading for open waters,” she says. “Not a drill or exercise. Surface and submarine elements of the North Sea Fleet in Qingdao, the East Sea Fleet in Ningbo, and the South Sea Fleet in Zhanjiang are all heading out, at flank speed. Their naval air forces are also taking off.”
“Taiwan?”
“Being ignored at the moment, it seems.”
“What else?”
“Their strategic air force units are scrambling and are also departing their air bases.”
“Their nuclear forces?”
“Still running that down.”
His Marine deputy looks to his desk. “You might get additional information from your liaisons, sir.”
“You’re right,” he says, going to his desk.
At his desk he picks up the phone linking him to the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center, the command and communications center for the Department of Defense and the National Command Authority, i.e., President Keegan Barrett.
The phone rings once. A woman’s voice states, “Major Juarez, NMCC Duty Officer.”
“This is Lieutenant Commander Johnson, Joint Intelligence Center Pacific.”
“Acknowledged.”
“I have a Flash message. Ready?”
Her voice remains cool and steady. “Roger that.”
“Our surveillance assets are reporting a major deployment of Chinese naval and air forces. The air forces seem to be dispersing to alternate landing fields. The naval forces are leaving port, heading to the open sea.”
Cornelius looks up at the colored moving indicators up there, spreading out like a flower blossoming, each deadly petal heading for safety. Even in their most challenging test drills, he’s never seen a deployment like this.
“Copy that,” she says.
“We’ll have a detailed report on numbers of air force and naval assets being deployed within a half hour.”
“Copy that,” the major says, voice still cool and composed, and Cornelius feels a bit of anger. No wonder you’re so cool, Major, he thinks, you’re way over on the other side of the globe, far away from the Chinese strategic weapons force. Here, on the other hand, we’re at ground zero for an upcoming second Pearl Harbor.
“That’s all for now,” Cornelius says. “Signing off.”
He hangs up the phone, feels like he’s missing something, and he remembers that cup of coffee back in the kitchen area.
Screw that, he thinks. With everything that’s going on, I’m not about to send a junior officer back there, and I’m not about to move.
He has a feeling he’s not leaving his desk for a day or two.
He sits down, goes to the old-fashioned logbook, notes the time, and writes, “Alerted Major Juarez, NMCC, of current status.”
The phone from the NSA rings and he instantly picks it up.
“Hey Corny, it’s Tina,” the familiar, kind voice from the NSA says. “Bet things are hopping over in your neck of the ocean. Give me a quick brief, will you?”
He gives her a bit more detailed report than the one given to the NMCC, for in the past minute or two, messages have been placed on his desk, giving details of the naval and air force movements taking place in and around China.
Tina says, “Sure jibes with what we’re hearing over here.”
“Which is what?”
“Nothing good,” she says. “Our SIGINT resources are showing massive army movements and mobilizations taking place in all urban centers in the country, and they’re all calling up reserves, and members of the Chinese People’s Armed Police Force.”
“Heading anywhere interesting, like Tibet or India?” he asks.
“Hell, no, internal only. Like they’re preparing for massive internal unrest or disorder.”
“Shit,” he says.
“Yeah, and one more thing ’cause I like you, Corny,” she says. “Our friends down the way—the National Cybercommand—are busy swapping reports and warnings. Based on the chatter and what we can see through our online snoopers, our counterparts in Beijing are getting ready for a massive cyberattack on everything and anything that’s hooked up to a computer.”
“When?” he asks.
“Could be an hour, could be a day, but it’s coming,” she says.
Cornelius says, “But for fuck’s sake, what’s triggering this? This can’t be a bolt-out-of-the-blue attack. With all their military deployments and battle prep in cyberspace, they’re practically telling us what they’re about to do.”
“Maybe it’s the biggest warning in the world, telling us to stop whatever it is we’re doing. Question is, Corny, is who’s out there on our side listening.”
A pause and Tina says, “Well, got to get back to work. War’s coming today…hope you’re deep enough and have enough MREs to ride it out, Corny. Wish we had gotten the chance to meet face-to-face.”
The phone clicks off. He should feel melancholy at Tina’s last words but looking up at the screens and seeing the messages pile up on his desk, he has no time for that.
War is coming.
CHAPTER 116
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams says, “Under attack in what way?”
Her security officer Ralph says, “All of our communications systems, from telephones to radios, are being jammed or have been disabled.”
Jean Swantish says, “I thought that was impossible.”
Hannah picks up one phone, and then another, and then a third.
Not even a dial tone.
“Improbable,” she says, “but not impossible. All the secure phones are installed and maintained by the Agency’s communications support group. Someone over in Langley got the word and multiple plugs were pulled. My guess, it was President Barrett to one of his loyalists.”
Jean takes out her cell phone, starts sliding through the screen.
“Once you got me out of my cell, you had a confrontation with someone…I’m pretty sure it was Chang Wanquan. I recognized the bastard’s voice. And you rotated me. Why?”
“To block him from shooting me.”
Lin says, “What?”
“You were captured for a reason, Benjamin. Meaning you were worth something. Me using you as a barrier made that guy hesitate for a couple of seconds. All I needed.”
Another traffic light, another stop.
“Good call,” Benjamin says.
“Thanks.”
“Wait,” Lin says. “You shot Chang Wanquan?”
“Well, I was thinking of giving him a kiss to surprise him into stepping back, but I couldn’t get my face mask off with just one hand. Why are you complaining after what you did back there at the gate?”
The light changes.
He resumes their quick drive.
About seven minutes later Lin says, “Hold on, you’re going the wrong way! You’re supposed to be heading north on the M1, not south.”
Liam drives with his eyes flickering from the side mirror, to the rearview mirror, and then the other side mirror. So far so good, but for how long?
“Just a bit of tradecraft, that’s all.”
Lin says, “You do what we planned.”
“Sorry, I don’t remember the ‘we’ part, Lin. You were just giving orders. This isn’t your op. It’s mine. Hold on.”
He takes an exit off the M1, slows down, and in another minute, Liam is slowly driving through the crowded parking lot of the Kelvin Village Shopping Centre. He goes up one row and then another, until he spots a black Jeep Cherokee with a neon-orange flyer stuck in a windshield wiper.
Liam pulls into a near space, switches off the engine.
Lin says, “What is this?”
“Change of vehicles,” he says, opening the door. “I’m sure you gave this Mercedes a clean sweep earlier, but I didn’t do it, so I don’t trust the results. Hurry along.”
He walks over to the Cherokee, finds the key fob in a small magnetic box under the driver’s-side rear tire, pulls it free. Back at Director Abrams’s residence, before he left, she promised she could help in a few areas, like this transportation. He unlocks the Cherokee, brings his gear to the rear of the vehicle, and helps Lin and Benjamin get into the rear seat.
Lin says, “What the hell is this?”
Liam is happy to see two shoeboxes and clothing in plastic bags. “New shoes and clothing for both of you. Don’t take your time changing. I’ll close the door for privacy. I’m not taking the chance that tracers are in your clothes.”
He shuts the door.
Looks up into the cool June sky.
Nothing airborne up there yet.
Maybe he’s being too cautious, but that’s like saying there’s too much bacon.
No one in the Agency ever says those words.
Lin opens the door, passes over a bulging plastic bag, which he tosses into the trunk of the Mercedes, and in a few minutes, he’s driving the Cherokee and his two passengers back south on the M1.
Lin says, “You’re still driving the wrong way.”
“If you mean I’m driving away from your safe house, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Benjamin speaks up. “Liam…you can trust her…”
“No, I can’t,” he says. “Even with her shooting those two armed men back there. A good sign but I’m inherently suspicious, sorry. We’re about an hour away from my safe house, which I can vouch for. In the meantime, Lin, get working on your end of the deal.”
“What?”
“Your man is rescued,” he says. “Time to make the call, to give up what’s ailing the vice president.”
“No,” she says.
Liam feels something hard and cold punch his chest. If this was all a lie and a setup, just to get Benjamin freed without the quid pro quo of saving the vice president, he’s about ten seconds from coming to a halt, opening the rear door, and shoving her out onto the busy highway.
“Better explain yourself, and now,” he says.
Lin says, “Once we’re safely in place at your facility, knowing we’ve not been followed, then I will make the call. Not sooner.”
Liam chews his lower lip.
Lin says, “Don’t like being on the other end, now, do you?”
He keeps quiet, just looking at the time, converting it to what must be early morning back in the District of Columbia.
Just what in hell might be going on back at home?
CHAPTER 113
IN HER HOME office in Georgetown, CIA Director Hannah Abrams is focused on the clock on her desk, a gift from years back from the head of MI6. It’s a piece of tourist kitsch, the Big Ben clock and tower, done up in red, white, and blue, with a grinning bulldog sitting at its base.
Jean Swantish says, “Staring at it won’t make it go any faster.”
“It should,” she says. “Liam’s been on the ground for nearly a day, and not a word.”
“That’s what you wanted,” Jean says. “For him to stay mission silent until he had Benjamin and the medical information for the vice president.”
The clock says it’s approaching eight a.m.
“Will it chime when it hits the top of the hour?”
Hannah says, “Thank God, no.”
Then she smiles, taps the tower. “Test time. What is this?”
Jean says, “More like trick time. It’s Big Ben, right?”
Hannah says, “Ha, I have you! Nope, Big Ben is the name of the clock. The name of the tower is the Elizabeth Tower. Even when everything is widely known, it can also still be wrong. Good thing to remember.”
She keeps on looking at the clock, but there’s a knock at the door, making her jump. Keep your cool, girl, you’re almost as jumpy as when you spent your first night at the Farm, wondering and dreading what was coming for you in the months ahead.
“Come in,” she says.
Ralph comes in, face tense. “Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“We’re under attack.”
CHAPTER 114
THERE’VE BEEN SOME sharp words between Liam Grey and Lin, who is gently caressing Benjamin’s forehead, but Benjamin doesn’t care. He’s lying down in the rear of the Cherokee, and even with the aches, throbs, and jolts of pain, he feels like he’s in bliss. His legs are twisted some but his head is in Lin’s lap. She looks down at him and smiles, her eyes filled with tears.
She whispers, “See, I told you I’d get you out.”
“You did,” he whispers back. “What now?”
“We leave South Africa. Liam says he will take care of it.”
“I’m sure,” he says. “You can trust him on that.”
The Cherokee hits a pothole and Benjamin gasps with pain. She strokes his forehead again. He says, “When you say ‘we,’ you mean me, Liam, and you, right?”
Lin smiles, touches her lips with two fingers, gently presses them against his lips.
“Yes, Benjamin, that’s exactly what I mean.”
Liam drives, staying on a straight route, but every several minutes, taking an unplanned exit or turn, glancing at the rearview and side mirrors, checking for ground surveillance.
No.
So far, so good.
The city has given way to the countryside, with lots of farms and low trees and brush. Following the narrow two-lane R563 state road, they enter the small farming village of Hekpoort, about sixty klicks northwest of Johannesburg. At a dirt road next to a service station, Liam makes a left. The land is reddish dirt with some trees and barbed-wire fencing, with a mountain range to the north.
He says, “Sorry, Benjamin, it’s going to be bumpy for a bit.”
Lin says, “I’m holding him. He’ll be all right.”
Liam keeps his view moving left and right as they go down the remote road, until a small, one-story wood-and-dark-stone farmhouse comes into view, with an attached one-bay garage. He pulls the Cherokee into the garage, gets out, and swivels the door down.
The next few minutes are occupied with getting his gear into the interior of the cool house, as well as Benjamin and Lin. Liam helps Benjamin cross the stone floor and stretch out on a dusty couch near a fireplace. Throw rugs, heavy wooden chairs, and empty bookcases occupy the main room. A small kitchen is visible, along with two doors, one leading to a bathroom, and the other to a bedroom.
Snug and to the point, which is all they need, Liam thinks.
To Lin he says, “We weren’t followed, and we’ve safely arrived at this place. Time for you to seal the deal, complete your side of the bargain. Make the call.”
Lin says, “But I don’t have the number.”
Liam digs out his Agency-issued phone, thumbs the touch ID to bring it awake. He quickly scrolls through and finds the number for Director Abrams’s home, and pushes it.
“Here,” he says, passing the phone to Lin. “I’m calling Hannah Abrams, the CIA director. Be polite but get the damn message out.”
Lin takes the phone, holds it up to her ear, waits, and returns the phone to Liam.
“You must have misdialed,” she says. “It’s not ringing.”
“The hell I did.”
“Then you call,” she says.
Liam looks again at the number, then swipes the call feature.
He brings it up to his ear.
The phone rings once.
Then clicks off.
“Shit,” he says.
He does it again.
Same thing.
One ring and the call doesn’t go through.
He says, “Lin, you’ve got a phone?”
“Of course. A fresh burner so we couldn’t be traced.”
She pulls her device out of her purse and Liam displays the number for Director Abrams’s house.
Same thing.
Lin says, “Just rings once and signs off.”
“Damn it!” Liam says. He goes into the small kitchen, sees an old-fashioned phone up on the wall, complete with curling cord. He lifts the receiver and is relieved to hear a dial tone. Agency safe houses are equipped to receive—on zero notice—visitors in need of water, power, food, and now, most important, a landline.
Holding his Agency phone in one hand and cupping the receiver between his shoulder and right ear, he punches in the right sequence of numbers to get an international line to the United States.
There.
It rings once.
Twice.
He turns and smiles at Lin.
“I think we’re going to make it.”
The phone is answered. Liam hears a woman’s voice and says, “I need to speak to Director Abrams, right away.”
But the voice pays no attention.
“…no longer in service. No other information is available for this number. Good-bye.”
Click.
Liam slowly replaces the receiver back to the wall phone’s cradle.
“The director’s been blocked,” Liam says.
“Meaning?” Lin asks, while Benjamin looks up from the couch.
“She’s dead, disabled, or captured,” Liam says. “We’re on our own.”
CHAPTER 115
Joint Intelligence Center Pacific
Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
US NAVY LIEUTENANT Commander Cornelius Johnson is getting a cup of coffee in the small galley adjacent to the Pit when a scared-looking, young male ensign bursts in and says, “Sir, you need to come back, right away.”
Cornelius leaves his coffee mug on the counter and follows the ensign up the slight ramp that goes up to the balcony level that holds his desk and others, and that overlooks the large video display screens and computer monitors.
He gets two steps into the darkened room before he freezes, looking at the displays, at the blinking and rapidly moving indicators, trying to keep it all in, trying to absorb what he’s seeing.
His deputy, Marine Lieutenant Juanita Lopez, steps up to him, brown eyes worried. He says to her, “Lieutenant, please tell me that there’s been a mistake, that we’re watching a simulation, or a training exercise.”
“No, sir,” she says. “We’ve checked it twice. This is real time, this is happening.”
Breathe, he thinks, looking at the flashing indicators marking the military forces of the People’s Republic of China.
“Latest?” he asks.
“The PLA Navy is heading for open waters,” she says. “Not a drill or exercise. Surface and submarine elements of the North Sea Fleet in Qingdao, the East Sea Fleet in Ningbo, and the South Sea Fleet in Zhanjiang are all heading out, at flank speed. Their naval air forces are also taking off.”
“Taiwan?”
“Being ignored at the moment, it seems.”
“What else?”
“Their strategic air force units are scrambling and are also departing their air bases.”
“Their nuclear forces?”
“Still running that down.”
His Marine deputy looks to his desk. “You might get additional information from your liaisons, sir.”
“You’re right,” he says, going to his desk.
At his desk he picks up the phone linking him to the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center, the command and communications center for the Department of Defense and the National Command Authority, i.e., President Keegan Barrett.
The phone rings once. A woman’s voice states, “Major Juarez, NMCC Duty Officer.”
“This is Lieutenant Commander Johnson, Joint Intelligence Center Pacific.”
“Acknowledged.”
“I have a Flash message. Ready?”
Her voice remains cool and steady. “Roger that.”
“Our surveillance assets are reporting a major deployment of Chinese naval and air forces. The air forces seem to be dispersing to alternate landing fields. The naval forces are leaving port, heading to the open sea.”
Cornelius looks up at the colored moving indicators up there, spreading out like a flower blossoming, each deadly petal heading for safety. Even in their most challenging test drills, he’s never seen a deployment like this.
“Copy that,” she says.
“We’ll have a detailed report on numbers of air force and naval assets being deployed within a half hour.”
“Copy that,” the major says, voice still cool and composed, and Cornelius feels a bit of anger. No wonder you’re so cool, Major, he thinks, you’re way over on the other side of the globe, far away from the Chinese strategic weapons force. Here, on the other hand, we’re at ground zero for an upcoming second Pearl Harbor.
“That’s all for now,” Cornelius says. “Signing off.”
He hangs up the phone, feels like he’s missing something, and he remembers that cup of coffee back in the kitchen area.
Screw that, he thinks. With everything that’s going on, I’m not about to send a junior officer back there, and I’m not about to move.
He has a feeling he’s not leaving his desk for a day or two.
He sits down, goes to the old-fashioned logbook, notes the time, and writes, “Alerted Major Juarez, NMCC, of current status.”
The phone from the NSA rings and he instantly picks it up.
“Hey Corny, it’s Tina,” the familiar, kind voice from the NSA says. “Bet things are hopping over in your neck of the ocean. Give me a quick brief, will you?”
He gives her a bit more detailed report than the one given to the NMCC, for in the past minute or two, messages have been placed on his desk, giving details of the naval and air force movements taking place in and around China.
Tina says, “Sure jibes with what we’re hearing over here.”
“Which is what?”
“Nothing good,” she says. “Our SIGINT resources are showing massive army movements and mobilizations taking place in all urban centers in the country, and they’re all calling up reserves, and members of the Chinese People’s Armed Police Force.”
“Heading anywhere interesting, like Tibet or India?” he asks.
“Hell, no, internal only. Like they’re preparing for massive internal unrest or disorder.”
“Shit,” he says.
“Yeah, and one more thing ’cause I like you, Corny,” she says. “Our friends down the way—the National Cybercommand—are busy swapping reports and warnings. Based on the chatter and what we can see through our online snoopers, our counterparts in Beijing are getting ready for a massive cyberattack on everything and anything that’s hooked up to a computer.”
“When?” he asks.
“Could be an hour, could be a day, but it’s coming,” she says.
Cornelius says, “But for fuck’s sake, what’s triggering this? This can’t be a bolt-out-of-the-blue attack. With all their military deployments and battle prep in cyberspace, they’re practically telling us what they’re about to do.”
“Maybe it’s the biggest warning in the world, telling us to stop whatever it is we’re doing. Question is, Corny, is who’s out there on our side listening.”
A pause and Tina says, “Well, got to get back to work. War’s coming today…hope you’re deep enough and have enough MREs to ride it out, Corny. Wish we had gotten the chance to meet face-to-face.”
The phone clicks off. He should feel melancholy at Tina’s last words but looking up at the screens and seeing the messages pile up on his desk, he has no time for that.
War is coming.
CHAPTER 116
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams says, “Under attack in what way?”
Her security officer Ralph says, “All of our communications systems, from telephones to radios, are being jammed or have been disabled.”
Jean Swantish says, “I thought that was impossible.”
Hannah picks up one phone, and then another, and then a third.
Not even a dial tone.
“Improbable,” she says, “but not impossible. All the secure phones are installed and maintained by the Agency’s communications support group. Someone over in Langley got the word and multiple plugs were pulled. My guess, it was President Barrett to one of his loyalists.”
Jean takes out her cell phone, starts sliding through the screen.
