Arctic Storm Rising

Three

Doing his best to control his nerves, Captain Nick Flynn followed the uniformed Pentagon police officer escorting him down a long basement corridor. Overhead LED lights glowed brightly, illuminating a bare concrete floor and walls painted a faded institutional green. Other than a firm, but polite “Follow me, sir” uttered right after they met at the entrance, the sergeant hadn’t said a single word to him. Nor had any of the multitudes of people hurrying onward in all directions paid him the slightest attention. More than twenty-five thousand military personnel and civilians were employed inside the enormous building. And in a place where Army, Air Force, and Marine generals and Navy admirals were a dime a dozen, a junior officer, even one with a police escort, apparently didn’t rate so much as the flicker of an eye.

Maybe it was a trick of the poetic imagination he’d inherited from his Irish immigrant grandfather, a teller of many tales, but something about this silent procession through the bowels of the Pentagon struck him as eerie — as though he were nothing but a ghost drifting through this massive military bureaucratic machine. Jet lag brought on by an overnight flight from the Middle East only intensified this weird sense of disembodiment, as did the preemptory orders he’d received to report here today for “further debriefing on the Wath Incident.”

Flynn honestly wasn’t sure what more there was to analyze about the tribal ambush and its aftermath. He and the other survivors had spent days with Air Force and DoD investigators. Every observation, word, and action they could recall had been relentlessly probed, questioned, and challenged in an effort to develop a clearer and more detailed picture of how the attack unfolded and how it was repelled. The precision-guided munitions used to destroy the downed C-130 and its cargo had also obliterated every scrap of physical evidence, so all that was left were differing and imperfect human memories.

With Flynn in tow, the gray-shirted police officer turned right into a narrower hallway, one of the five concentric rings that ran around each floor of the huge building. Two Marine sergeants in camouflage battle dress uniforms stood on guard outside a door a few yards farther on.

“This is Captain Nicholas Flynn, USAF, reporting here as ordered,” the police officer announced. “You have him?”

The older of the two Marine noncoms nodded. “I relieve you of the responsibility, Sergeant,” he said formally. Without any further word, the policeman turned around and walked away.

Curiouser and curiouser, Flynn thought, raising an eyebrow in surprise. He offered the two sentries a dry smile. “So I’m your ‘responsibility’ now? Is that some kind of new DoD code word for ‘prisoner’?”

“Couldn’t say, sir,” the younger Marine sergeant replied woodenly. He held out a hand. “May I have your cell phone, please?” He nodded toward the door and its adjoining electronic card reader and ten-key pad. “That’s a secure room. Per SOP, no personal electronic devices are allowed inside.”

Wordlessly, Flynn handed over his phone and watched the guard stash it in a lockbox. Then he stood still while the noncom patted him down, making a final check for any additional prohibited devices. He glanced at the door. The usual alphanumeric code used to identify rooms inside the Pentagon had been covered over by another sign: i-con (t).

“Icon?” he asked.

“Intelligence Conference,” the older sergeant explained.

With the (t) signaling that it was only a temporary use of this particular facility, Flynn realized. Maybe even just for today’s scheduled exercise in once again plowing the same stony ground of trying to figure out exactly what had gone wrong in the Libyan desert.

The Marine swiped his ID card through the reader and rapidly punched in a code on the pad. With an audible click, the door unlocked. “Go right on inside, sir,” he said. “They’re waiting for you.”

Which was probably pretty much what the Babylonian guards had said to Daniel right before they shoved him into the lion’s den, Flynn decided warily. He took a quick look around the room as he entered. Five men were seated behind a long table. Four of them were military. The fifth was a beefy, overweight civilian in a dark suit, a collared white shirt, and a red silk tie.

A couple of the Pentagon brass, a colonel and a major general, were from the Air Force. The other pair were Army, both of them brigadier generals. Oddly, and in Flynn’s view, ominously, no one else in the room had a name tag or an ID badge on his uniform or coat. That was totally against all regulations. What the hell was going on here? He took a closer look at the civilian at the far end of the table. Everything about the guy shouted high-ranking CIA executive. You could take the man out of Langley, but you couldn’t take the shadowy aura of Langley out of the man.

Definitely worried now, he came to attention. “Captain Nicholas Fl—”

“Take a seat, Captain Flynn,” the Air Force two-star said quietly, interrupting. He indicated the lone chair set in front of the table.

Working hard to keep any expression off his face, Flynn did as he was told. His mouth felt as dry as dust. Suddenly, this setup seemed a hell of a lot more like a trial than it did a routine intelligence debrief. More than ever, he thought, this was a time to be cautious.

As though he’d read his mind, the major general shook his head. “Relax, son. This is not an official UCMJ proceeding.”

Which was very cold comfort, Flynn concluded. Proceedings conducted under the Uniform Code of Military Justice at least had protections for those involved, including the right to legal counsel if necessary. He leaned forward slightly in his chair. “May I ask exactly what the purpose of this meeting is then, sir?”

The general glanced briefly at the men seated next to him before turning his attention back to Flynn. “Consider this more of an informal, interagency discussion, Captain,” he said. “Together with our colleague from the CIA here, we’re simply trying to find a mutually agreeable way to handle this unfortunate situation before it spins further out of control. And we’d appreciate your cooperation in that effort.”

Spinning out of control? How so? Flynn wondered. From the moment they’d landed back at El Minya, everything that had happened in Libya had been classified top secret. Under direct orders from higher up, he and all the other survivors had already signed mounds of official paperwork swearing to keep everything hush-hush.

“Maybe you missed the news out there in the back of Bumfuckistan, Flynn, but our bid to keep this quiet has failed. Some son of a bitch somewhere leaked,” the civilian behind the table growled. “So now we’ve got members of Congress and the media screaming their heads off — demanding to know why a U.S. aircraft crashed in Libya and exactly how so many Air Force personnel and other Americans ended up dead or badly injured in a firefight with the locals.”

“So what are you going to tell them?” Flynn asked bluntly, realizing as soon as the words were out of his mouth that he should have kept his mouth shut. His earlier resolution to be cautious had been the smart play. This was like walking blindfolded through a minefield.

“As little as possible,” the CIA executive snapped back. His jowly face had reddened. “This was a highly sensitive, need-to-know operation, and those clowns on Capitol Hill, except for the people we can trust on the intelligence committees, do not need to know one goddamned thing. That goes double for the press.” He glowered at Flynn. “Which brings us right back to you. Because from our perspective, you’re the one who landed us all neck-deep in the shit.”

Flynn gritted his teeth. Keep your temper in check, he warned himself. Don’t rise to the bait. “Whoever told you that got it wrong,” he said, far more calmly than he felt.

“Your own testimony is that you fired the first shot,” the CIA officer reminded him. “Killing that first tribesman is what triggered everything else. The ensuing battle. The horrendous casualties our team and yours took. And all of the political and national security fallout we’re facing now.”

“I killed that Teda clansman because the bastard was about to detonate a suicide bomb,” Flynn snapped.

The other man shrugged. “So you claim. But there’s no real evidence to prove that any bomb ever existed.”

“Except that second suicide bomber who did succeed in detonating his vest,” Flynn said tightly. “The one who blew your Mi-17 helicopter to hell and gone. Remember him?”

“Again, there’s no hard evidence for your assertion.” The CIA officer’s expression was contemptuous. “For all we know, once the shit hit the fan and our security contractors started exchanging fire with the locals, stray rounds might have set off the helicopter’s fuel tank. Or maybe they detonated some of the explosives our team brought with them to sanitize the site.”

“You see our problem, Captain Flynn,” the Air Force general said. “Without forensic evidence from the battlefield, assessing what really happened boils down to deciding which of the two conflicting narratives we accept — yours or that of the Agency case officer who was also present.”

“Mr. White,” Flynn bit out.

“Correct,” the CIA executive agreed. “And our Mr. White is an extremely experienced operative, with years of field experience.” He steepled his hands and looked over them at Flynn. “Tell me, Captain, before this unfortunate incident, how many times have you been in combat?”

“None,” Flynn admitted, struggling to keep his voice even. He saw now where this was going. He’d walked into a Red Queen’s court right out of Alice in Wonderland, where the order of the day was “sentence first, verdict afterward.” With the press and Congress on the warpath, the Pentagon brass and the CIA were both looking for a scapegoat, someone they could blame if their continuing efforts to cover up the full extent of the disaster failed. And given the choice between a junior Air Force captain without any political influence and a ranking intelligence officer who could probably blow the whistle on a lot of questionable covert operations if he felt threatened, there wasn’t much doubt about whose head would roll.

Confirming his suspicions, the CIA representative turned his head toward the Air Force two-star presiding over this irregular kangaroo court. “Ideally, we’d prefer that Flynn here be held incommunicado in some stockade. The last thing any of us want is him being available to testify in front of any congressional hearings… or blabbing to journalists.”

Jesus Christ, Flynn thought, scarcely able to believe his ears. Just how far did these guys think they could go? Did they seriously imagine they could imprison any U.S. citizen, let alone a serving officer in the U.S. military, without trial or review? Forget Alice in Wonderland, this was starting to sound a lot more like the opening of The Man in the Iron Mask.

The Air Force general glanced at his Pentagon colleagues and then cleared his throat. “In our judgment, that would be… inadvisable. We don’t think it’s necessary in this case to go so far outside the regulations.” He looked briefly at Flynn and then turned back to the CIA’s representative. “Nevertheless, we agree it would be in the best interests of the Department of Defense and our national security to make sure what happened at the Wath Oasis fades quickly from the public consciousness.”

“What are you offering?”

“This episode is already highly classified. Which means that any unauthorized disclosure to the media or Congress is a serious felony, punishable by years in federal prison. Should Captain Flynn decide to do so anyway, in some fit of whistleblower zeal, we are also prepared to convene an immediate court-martial to try him for various crimes, including the unprovoked use of deadly force resulting in the killing of numerous civilians, fellow U.S. Air Force personnel, and other American citizens.” Here at least, the general had the grace to offer Flynn an apologetic look.

After a moment, the CIA man shook his head. “My agency needs something more concrete.”

“Which is why we’re also going to transfer the captain to a new duty post,” the general continued. “One that’s about as far from the District of Columbia as it’s possible to get. He won’t be talking out of school to anyone from there, at least not easily… or undetectably.”

“Flynn could resign his commission,” the CIA executive pointed out. “I’ve seen his records. He’s completed his active-duty service obligation. And once he’s out of the Air Force, all you’ve got as a hold on him is that top secret classification rating.”

Flynn sat rigid, half in shock and half in fury at the way these… pompous assholes… were so cavalierly debating the best way to wreck his life and his military career.

The Air Force general shrugged. “Any request Captain Flynn makes to resign can be denied on the grounds that the needs of the service come first. A year or year and a half should be long enough for this mess to die down and be forgotten.”

The CIA man thought about that for a moment and then nodded sharply. “Fair enough. That meets our needs.” With a cursory nod to the assembled Pentagon brass, he climbed heavily to his feet and left. He didn’t spare a glance for the young officer whose career he’d just helped destroy.

One by one, the somber-faced Army brigadiers and Air Force colonel took their own leave and walked out of the room, leaving Flynn and the Air Force major general behind. From start to finish, not one of them had said a word.

Of course not, Flynn thought bitterly. They’d all made up their minds on how this was going to end before I even got here. Why waste time and breath pretending this whole proceeding was anything but window dressing for a predetermined outcome? And pretty shoddy window dressing, at that?

“I’m sorry about this, son,” the general said at last, breaking an awkward silence. He stood up. “Really, I am.” He shook his head. “Look, I know this isn’t much consolation, but incoming rounds don’t care whose side you’re on, or whether your intentions were smart or stupid. Think of this as some random bullet that just happened to have your name on it. That may not be fair, but it’s reality. So take your medicine. Do the job we’re assigning you. And for God’s sake, don’t rock the boat or shoot your mouth off again. Then, in a year or two, when this has all blown over, we’ll let you resign your commission and start over again in the civilian world. And I can guarantee that a lot of corporate doors will be open to a young man like you with an honorable discharge.”

Flynn ignored that unsubtly dangled carrot. Instead, carefully controlling his voice to hide his anger, he simply asked, “So where am I being exiled to… sir?”

The general didn’t hesitate. “One of the North Warning System’s long-range radar sites. At Kaktovik, Alaska.”

“I’m not exactly qualified to manage radar systems,” Flynn pointed out bluntly.

“We know that, Captain,” the general agreed. He shrugged. “The North Warning System is largely automated anyway, with any necessary maintenance or upkeep handled by civilian contractors.”

Flynn frowned. Then what the hell was he being sent to do? Play poker with bored civilian radar technicians?

“Congress has been bitching about potential security threats to our early-warning air defense radars,” the general explained. “They’re worried about possible Russian commando raids or sabotage. So we’ve agreed to explore the formation of small Joint Force security teams for these sites.”

“And that’s where I come in,” Flynn guessed flatly.

The general nodded. “That’s where you come in. We’re putting you in command of the first experimental Joint Force security detail.”

Christ, Flynn thought bleakly, they were assigning him to glorified sentry duty at a post well above the Arctic Circle. He shivered inside. If they’d tried for a thousand years, these bastards couldn’t have picked a better place to punish him for the crime of making the CIA’s covert ops gurus look like fools. For a Texas boy who’d grown up seeing snow only on occasional ski trips, the thought of Alaska’s subzero winter temperatures and endless dark nights was downright hellish.