Threat Level Black (5 page)

The pilot was slumped over the control yoke. But there was another person in the plane.

An injured pilot and a hijacker? Or an injured pilot and a scared, nonpilot passenger.

The person in the first officer’s seat was much smaller and moved around.

The rest of the plane appeared empty.

No bomb that the gear could see.

“Guard Sixteen, pilot of target plane appears unconscious. There’s a passenger. Looks like a kid,” added Howe. “He’s light on fuel as well.”

“How the hell do you know all that?” demanded the Guard pilot.

“NADT Flight to Guard Sixteen,” said Howe, hoping his call sign would provide a clue, “I’m afraid I can’t go into details. But I do know it.”

There was a spar and a compartment behind the cockpit area painted solid by the AMV: The gear couldn’t see inside. It was possible that it was a bomb.

“NADT Flight Hawk One, Hawk Two, Guard Sixteen, we have additional data on the intercepted flight,” said the ground controller before the F-16 jock could respond. “Pilot is a thirty-four-year-old male, one passenger, ten-year-old girl, his daughter.”

“Shit,” said Storey.

“All right, let’s think on this a second,” said Howe. “How many terrorists are going to take their daughters with them on their final flight?”

“How do we know that’s really who they are?” responded Guard Sixteen.

“The person in the first officer’s seat is pretty small,” said Howe. “Yeah, it’s definitely a girl. She’s got long hair.”

Howe slid closer, riding inside twenty yards, ten, worried that the turbulence off his aircraft might upset the plane. He didn’t need the high-tech AMV system any more: He could see the girl pretty clearly through the large window in the relatively new plane. He tried to signal for her to speak, but she didn’t seem to have a headset. He tried a few times to mime that she should take her father’s, but he knew that wasn’t likely to help much. Whatever happened in the movies, in real life the odds of talking a ten-year-old into a safe landing had to be a million to one.

“How much fuel does he have left?” Storey asked.

One of the ground controllers thought he was talking to him and replied that, if the flight plan was correct, he ought to be able to fly for another half hour or so. Howe thought the estimate fairly accurate based on the scan, though it was difficult to tell without more details about the airplane and its engine.

“That should take it out of the restricted area,” said Storey.

“Then what happens?” said the ANG pilot.

“I think it’s a Cirrus SR22,” said Storey.

“And?”

“If that’s a Cirrus SR22, it has a parachute,” explained Storey. “All we have to do is get the kid to pull it when she’s clear of the capital.”

The controller confirmed that the plane was designed to carry a parachute—but added that there was no way to know if it had one.

“Where is it located?” asked Howe.

“Behind the cabin area,” said Storey, describing the compartment.

“It’s there,” said Howe. “I say we give it a shot,” said Howe. “Better than shooting down a ten-year-old kid over the Potomac.”

“Stand by,” said the ground controller.

The Capitol building loomed ahead. Two more interceptors were flying up from the southeast, along with a police helicopter.

“We have a company representative on the line,” said the controller finally. “We think it might work. Can you hang with them?”

“Not a problem,” replied Howe, exhaling slowly into his oxygen mask.

“Good advertisement for the I-MAN system,” said Storey.

I-MAN was an emergency piloting system that would allow the controls for a private plane to be taken over in an emergency such as this. It was another NADT project. Until this moment he hadn’t thought that much about it—and certainly hadn’t seen it as important or even worthwhile.

But it might be. If he took the job, he could find out. He could help all sorts of people, not just the Air Force, not just the military. It was an important job.

Just not his.

“You have to get that passenger on the radio,” said the controller, explaining that they would need to instruct her to kill the engine and then deploy the chute. Howe acknowledged, then closed in.

“Radio,” he said, miming how she should take the headset from her father and put it on. It took several tries before she finally got it. But she still didn’t acknowledge the broadcasts.

“Wave your hand if you hear us,” said Howe.

She did.

“Okay, ground,” said Howe. “For some reason she’s not transmitting, but she can definitely hear. Do we have an easy place to land ahead somewhere?”

The controller mapped a spot in Virginia. They were a good ten minutes from it when the aircraft’s engine began to cough. That at least solved one problem: They didn’t have to tell her how to cut power.

Howe listened as the controller, speaking in what had to be the calmest voice he’d ever heard, told her to tug on the emergency handle. It took forty pounds of pressure to pull the lever; Howe watched anxiously as the girl pulled down with all her weight.

Nothing happened for a second. And then the panel at the rear of the cockpit seemed to mushroom upward. The parachute appeared as if it had come down from above, snagging the aircraft in a harness. The airplane slowed abruptly and Howe lost sight of it for a moment as he banked to the north. By the time he came around, the Cirrus was descending calmly toward the ground, more like a balloon than a skydiver. It landed against a patch of trees near a baseball field; a Coast Guard helicopter that had been scrambled as part of the rescue effort closed in.

“Time for lunch, Colonel,” said Storey.

His flight suit was soaked. He’d been sweating his brains out, worried about the kid and her father.

“Colonel, we going home?” asked Storey. “We’re, uh, getting low on fuel ourselves.”

Howe glanced at his instruments and realized with a shock that he was already far into his fuel reserves; he had something on the order of ten minutes of flying time left.

“Roger that,” Howe said, plotting the course to the airfield.

Blitz dove into the e-mails on his desk, trying to clear away the most important business before his next round of meetings. But it was no use; he was about two messages deep when Mozelle buzzed with a call from the CIA deputy director of operations. The calls multiplied, and Blitz found his head swimming in a myriad of details and distractions.

Just a few months earlier the U.S. had forcibly prevented nuclear war from erupting between Pakistan and India. In the first wave of optimism after the trauma, commentators had hailed a new era of peace. Now things seemed as chaotic and volatile as ever. North Korea was Exhibit One: The supreme leader, Kim Jong Il, was reportedly sick and hadn’t been seen for several days. Some intelligence reports claimed he had been poisoned; others noted that revolt was a common topic in army circles. Satellite data showed several different units on the move.

Blitz wanted more than regime change in North Korea. American interests in Asia ultimately depended on reunification. Not only was this the only way to effectively prevent war, it was the best short-term solution to growing Japanese restlessness about its constitutionally limited military establishment. Unlike some of his predecessors, Blitz realized that a rapidly rearming Japan presented a grave danger in Asia. China would have to react, and inevitably this would lead to further confrontation.

Blitz knew his goal; the difficulty was that it looked impossible to achieve, short of war. War in Korea would inevitably kill hundreds of thousands of civilians, even if the nuclear warheads the country was believed to have were not used.

While many worried about the nuclear weapons, ironically they were relatively easy to neutralize or at least target. Central Intelligence had confirmed that North Korea had two warheads loaded on Taepo-Dong 1 missiles that could hit Japan but that the CIA had concluded were currently aimed at South Korean targets. For the past eighteen months the country had been reprocessing uranium, or at least claiming that it was, turning it into bomb material. There was considerable debate about how much weapons-grade material the North Koreans had made, but the consensus was that the country probably had enough for four or six more weapons. Among the many reports on Blitz’s desk was one updating the likelihood that these had been placed on the Taepo-Dong 2 two-stage missile, a long-range weapon theoretically capable of striking Alaska. The missile wasn’t very accurate, but as the head of the Air Force pointed out, you didn’t have to be very accurate with a nuclear warhead.

All of the missile sites, along with potential bomb storage areas and a number of “hot spots” where sensor readings indicated uranium was present in some form, were under constant surveillance and could be destroyed within roughly twenty minutes—less time than it would take the Koreans to prepare the missiles for launch. If the North Koreans tried to go nuclear, Blitz was fairly confident that the threat could be met.

More problematic, though, were the massive number of rocket and artillery weapons aimed at South Korea. Two hundred and fifty 240mm rocket launchers were deployed by one unit alone, all aimed at Seoul from just north of the demilitarized zone. The total number of guns and rockets capable of killing people in the heavily populated area near South Korea’s capital literally could not be counted but numbered well in the thousands. Many of these weapons could be reloaded and used several times within just a few minutes.

Those weapons, too, were targeted. Most would be wiped out quickly if the order to attack was given, but presumably by then the damage would be done.

The Koreans may have seen the weapons as a deterrent to American attack. In some ways, however, they were exactly the opposite: It made more sense to launch a preemptive strike if things looked dicey than to stand around waiting until Seoul was on fire. Logically, Blitz realized that this meant America should attack before the North Koreans had a chance to. But successfully navigating the postwar environment required “moral authority,” which presumably would be lost if the U.S. struck first. Whether it made sense to or not.

“President’s looking for you,” said Mozelle, appearing over his desk between calls.

Blitz glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to head up to NADT and have lunch with Bill Howe. What’s up?”

Mozelle gave her eyes a little half-roll, which meant she had no idea. “FBI director just came over, along with Jack Hunter.”

“Hunter? What the hell does
he
want?”

“President didn’t say.”

Blitz grunted. He left his assistant to deal with the phones and went down the hall to the President’s office, where he found President D’Amici lining up a putt on the carpet. Charles Weber, the head of the FBI, sat at the side of the President’s desk. Hunter, who was presently the third or fourth man in the agency, depending on how you interpreted the depth chart, sat beside him. Both men were dressed in identical brown suits; the cuffs of their pants were hiked just enough to reveal a line of skin above their argyle socks.

The President flicked his wrist and sent a ball shooting across the carpet into the plastic cup. A little flag shot up at the side and the ball spun back.

“Dr. Blitz—just the man I wanted to see,” said the President, as if Blitz had wandered into the office by accident. He pointed his golf club at Weber. “Charlie, give the professor the lowdown.”

“Actually, Jack’s got a better handle on it.”

“Three days ago,” began Hunter in a voice that sounded as if it came from a TV commercial, “one of our field agents received a call from a young woman in Arizona….”

Hunter continued, detailing a contact from a scientist in North Korea who wanted to defect. The situation would not have been particularly unique, except for the fact that the scientist had supplied a copy of plans for an E-bomb, a weapon North Korea was not known to possess. That, and the fact that the DIA had recently begun working on a case involving the potential threat of using such a device on a major East Coast city.

Blitz hunched down in his seat and scratched his goatee. “Are these two things related?” he asked.

“We’re not sure,” said Hunter. “We’re still trying to flesh things out. The Korean is going to Moscow in two days. We want to try to contact him there.”

Different experts had slightly different opinions on the potency of the weapon: One thought it would send a surge through all unprotected electrical devices within a five-mile radius, frying them for good. Another thought its potency would be limited to roughly a mile or so. The three other experts who’d been consulted were somewhere in between. All agreed that the explosion would almost certainly cause the Northeast’s power grid to go down for several days, probably more.

“Best-case scenario, this is a real catastrophe,” said Hunter. “Nothing like the August 2003 blackout. The surges in the system will wipe out at least some of the safeguards that have been put in place since then. Worst case I don’t even want to speculate about.”

Hunter had his own ax to grind here, Blitz realized; he was angling for the FBI director’s job, which was due to open at the end of the year with his boss’s planned retirement. Blitz didn’t mind ambition, though it could be a powerful set of blinders when information was being conveyed.

“What does CIA think?” Blitz asked.

“I spoke to Anthony late yesterday,” said Hunter, referring to the head of the CIA. “He thinks it’s valid. We’ve sent one of our best people out to nose around, back up the field agent, Andy Fisher.”

Blitz knew of Fisher from the NADT scandal. Though unorthodox, the agent was reliable.

“We’d like to grab this guy and bring him back,” said Hunter.

Blitz stroked his chin. A Korean plot against the United States: That would clearly justify intervention, maybe even a preemptive strike.

Have the President go on television—no, have the
scientist
go on television.

Wouldn’t work.

“We want to help this guy defect,” repeated Hunter.

“What do you think, Professor?” asked the President. “Is it worth it?”

“Information on their weapons would certainly be useful,” said Blitz. “But what about the DIA’s angle? How would they get it here?”

“We don’t know,” said Hunter. “To be candid, from what we’ve seen, it’s just pure speculation by the DIA and it’s unrelated to this. But of course we should take it seriously.”

“That’s why I thought it best to bring it to the President’s attention personally,” said Weber.

The President took his putt. It hit the corner of the cup and bounced off to the left. He shook his head as he corralled the ball, then lined up another shot. “Why are they sending this scientist to Moscow?”

“It’s about the only place in the world the Koreans are still welcome,” said Hunter.

They should grab him, Blitz decided. The potential risk of such a weapon—even if it was only used in Korea—was great.

“I think we should move ahead,” he told the others.

Hunter’s face blanched. The President took another putt. It rimmed the cup, then sank down.

“Yes,” said the President, shepherding the ball as it came back. “But this sounds more like the sort of thing the CIA ought to handle.”

Hunter’s face blanched.

“Of course, the FBI should remain involved. You’ve worked together before,” added the President.

“Of course,” said Weber. “We were going to suggest a joint operation.”

Hunter asked who would be lead agency. It was a political faux pas: Had he not asked, he could have claimed sovereignty in any discussion with his CIA counterparts.

“If it’s overseas, I’d prefer the CIA,” said the President.

“Of course,” said Weber quickly. Whatever he lacked in police abilities he made up for in political acumen. He rose from his chair, obviously intent on getting out before Hunter blundered further.

“Stay with me a second, Professor,” the President told Blitz. “I have a few minutes before my next appointment, if John’s timeline is right.”

When the others were gone, the President asked Blitz if he thought the North Korean government would collapse soon.

“Hard to say,” said Blitz. “It might fall apart tomorrow. Then again, no one thought Kim Jong Il would even last this long. We may be talking about this twenty years from now.”

“You and I won’t,” said the President.

“We’re ready for an attack if it comes,” said Blitz.

“You’re still in favor of a preemptive attack, aren’t you?” said the President.

“That’s not what I was in favor of,” said Blitz.

“No?” The President took a shot and missed.

“It would solve certain problems, and create many others,” said Blitz. “Ultimately it doesn’t make sense.”

“But if it did, it would save a lot of lives,” said the President.

Blitz wasn’t about to argue with that.

“Have you found a new head for NADT yet?” asked the President, picking up his golf ball and stowing his putter as he changed the subject.

“I’m still working on Colonel Howe. We’re supposed to have lunch, actually.” Blitz glanced at his watch, more for show than anything else: There was no way now that he’d make the appointment.

“Money not enough?”

“I think the money’s part of the problem,” said Blitz. “I think it may scare him.”

“Tell him he deserves it. More than most of the fat cats running corporations around here who think they’re God’s gift to America.”

“Nonetheless,” said Blitz.

“He can always arrange to take the equivalent of his government salary.”

Blitz frowned, even though he knew D’Amici was only joking. Right or wrong, financial compensation was one way defense contractors and Washington kept score; Howe had to have a salary commensurate with his responsibility or he wouldn’t be taken seriously.

“Who’s your backup?” asked the President.

“Trieste, I guess,” said Blitz, mentioning a retired two-star Army general whose name had been floated around.

“Not
my first choice,” said the President. His tone made it clear Trieste wasn’t even on the list of acceptable candidates.

“What about my former assistant, Howard McIntyre?”

“Way too young for that job,” said the President.

“So is Howe.”

“Howe has considerably more experience, and he’s a hero,” said the President. “And he’s older than Howe—who is a good man; don’t get me wrong.”

“I’ll keep working on Howe,” said Blitz. “I haven’t given up.”

“You think you can control him?” asked the President.

“No,” said Blitz. He didn’t want to control Howe, necessarily, just steer NADT a little more toward the administration’s agenda than in the past.

“Maybe you should take the job yourself,” suggested the President.

That snake pit? Blitz knew he wouldn’t last six months.

“I’m happy where I am,” he said. “We need someone qualified and independent but who won’t come with their own ax to grind—and won’t be in the pocket of people looking to get rich. Howe’s perfect.”

“Be careful, Professor, you may get what you wish for,” said the President.