Cloudburst

Six UNPLEASANTNESS

The freeways at 4:30 A.M. were a wonderful thing. In an hour they would be packed, which was usual for the weekdays. Art’s Bureau Chevy had already made the trip from downtown north on the 110 freeway to Pasadena, and was heading south again, past the western fringe of the L.A. skyline. He could see the Hilton to his left, empty but strangely alight in the predawn darkness.

Art took the gently sweeping transition road from the 110 south to the westbound 10. He wondered if rural types would be surprised by the amount of cars at this time of the morning, and he almost laughed aloud when he realized that at one time many years before this traffic would be equivalent to rush hour. It was a problem with few solutions. Mass transit had to take up some of the slack and remove some of the single-occupant cars from the road. But then Art knew he wouldn’t ride the bus. Oh well. So much for examples. Maybe that’s why I’m not a parent, he thought.

He shook the thoughts from his head, realizing that he was wide awake and that it would be a bitch to get back on a normal sleep schedule. So it would take a few days. Who knew how long the hours would be like this? Back to the work at hand.

The Khaled brothers more than likely fell into the category of first-time visitors to Southern California, just two of the thousands who found their way there every day. Some came to visit Disneyland. Some came for business meetings or conventions — the downtown area was perfectly suited for this purpose with its many business hotels and the numerous meeting facilities. But the Khaleds did not come for any of these reasons. They did, however, share one important trait with the flood of tourists: ignorance of the area. The route between their two known destinations, LAX and Pasadena, would have needed to be a simple one. Interstate 405 north to Interstate 10 east to the 110 north to Pasadena. That was the quickest, most direct route, one that could be easily explained in a simple set of directions. Art believed they had made the unknown stop between the airport and the motel on the day they arrived, to pick up the weapons almost certainly. It wouldn’t have made sense to make the stop between Pasadena and downtown on the day they hid out in the 818. Too many things could have gone wrong, and one delay had the potential to throw the timing all off. Yes, they had done it as Art thought. It had to be.

But where? Finding a specific location in the city of Los Angeles and its adjacent suburbs would be a major task for a newcomer. The seemingly endless grid system of streets stretching from the freeways was akin to a maze, simple if one was only slightly familiar with them, but potentially an impossible labyrinth where a first-time visitor might lose himself.

Behind him, above the pairs of white dots in his rearview mirror, the predawn horizon was just beginning to show traces of a bluish glow. Soon the yellowish cast that signaled sunrise would spread across the skyline, and with the daylight the crush of cars would come. The traffic…the countless streets…the unfamiliar language emblazoned on the green highway signs — the Khaleds would have felt bombarded by the newness. Their native land was pristine and rich in history, ancient-looking and simple. Or it had been at one time. The brothers must have reacted with wonder to the abundance of glass, and lights, and billboards…

Wait… Art’s gaze locked on a billboard. The painted image of a red stone-and-glass tower was lofted fifty feet above and to the right of the freeway. “A weekend in L.A., just $99 a night.” Art jerked his eyes back to the road. It could work…

He speed-dialed his cell. It was answered in the Hilton immediately. “Eddie, I’ve got an idea.”

“Shoot,” Eddie answered through the burger in his mouth.

“It’s not even five and you’re eating that…never mind.

Listen, the shooters had to get their gear somewhere, right? And I figure, more than likely, they had to get it before they got to Pasadena.”

“Yeah. They wouldn’t have put it off till the last minute, and they wouldn’t have risked a face-to-face with Jackson.” A swallow followed.

“Or vice versa. He wouldn’t have gone for that. Like you said, Ed, the shooters didn’t give a damn about themselves, but Jackson — he seems like the kind of guy who didn’t want to take any chances before he split. For both of them it would have to be a clean pass, which got me thinking…well, I had a spark.”

“What hit you?” Another bite.

“A billboard.” Art leaned forward, checking his right side mirror as he moved to the exit. “The downtown Hyatt. Right up there to slap me in the face. It would be easy, clean. All Jackson would have needed to do is rent a room somewhere for a day or two and stash the weapons. Then he could have put the key for the place with the directions in a locker at the airport.”

“It’d work.”

“But it would have to be a place close to the freeway: someplace they couldn’t get lost finding. I don’t know, maybe no more than five or six blocks from the freeway. Probably off the Ten, or maybe the Four-oh-five. Just some cheap motel would do.” The red light at the off ramp’s bottom only made Art hesitate. Running lights was a perk. “How much manpower can we shift to check out the motels in the area?”

There was silence as Eddie checked the roster. “I show thirty-five teams we can move around.”

“Good.” Art turned left, back onto the freeway, heading east. “Put out pictures of all three. Someone at one of those places must have seen one of them.”

“If they did as you think.”

Art moved over three lanes. “There’s always an ‘if’, Ed.”

It was the second viewing of the recording for Bud and Herb. The president stared intently at the pictures. He had commented early on about the clarity.

“These look as if they were shot from the upper floor of a building nearby,” the president commented. “Where did these come from?”

“A modified KH-twelve,” Landau replied. “Normally you’d be briefed in a transition period on ‘National Technical Means.’ ”

“Of course. I’ve heard of the KH-twelve, but not about any modifications.”

Bud was the most knowledgeable of the two advisers on the subject. “Basically the KH-twelve ENCAP — enhanced capability — is a hybrid between a standard KH-twelve and the Hubble Space Telescope. Its existence is super secret. It was put up by the shuttle in two flights: One took the bare pieces up, and the other assembled the sections and fueled it. There is nothing in space that even compares.”

“From seeing these I can’t imagine anything that would.”

“These are ‘real-time’ images — recorded, of course — but we should have some enhanced stills in a short while.” Bud froze the picture on the Oval Office’s normal television, below which sat a pricey video player. The frozen frame showed just the 747 sitting near a building.

Director Landau noticed the shaky quality of the images on the standard video player. “Given the time, sir, we could have watched the feed directly in the situation room as it happened, but we’ve found it’s usually better for the crew at Belvoir to screen it.”

“No opposition to that. This is fine. Shall we?”

Bud touched the remote and the picture began to move. He pulled a small notebook from his jacket. The video counts where significant events appeared on the recording were written inside. “Watch from the right, sir.”

Two vehicles, one a large stake body truck and the other a smaller jeep, entered the frame. The jeep drove directly under the wing to the right rear of the jet, the larger truck swinging wide around.

“Note the men getting off the truck,” Bud suggested. “Uniforms.”

Each man wore a dark olive drab uniform and carried an assault rifle. They formed a rough oval around the 747, directed by one of the officers from the jeep. About every ten meters the soldiers stood, their rifles at their chests.

“Mr. President,” Bud said, freezing the recording once again, “there are three things to take note of here. First, the soldiers are regular army troops — not militia or second-line. General Granger pointed that out to us. They’re wearing full uniforms and battle dress, and those are AK74s. Newer rifles. Their second-line troops don’t have those yet.

“Second, it appears to be a single unit. Probably a platoon. These”—Bud pointed to a few points on the screen—“are the officers, probably equivalent to our own NCOs, and the platoon commander… here. The Libyans are notorious for using hodgepodge formations with a variety of equipment for ground missions. Granted, this is somewhat of a special occasion for them, but it is an indication of the seriousness. Plus, this officer from the jeep is a full colonel. We can tell by the shoulder boards.”

“We should be able to identify him and the captain with him in a few hours,” the DCI announced. “Luckily they obliged and looked up a few times.”

“Amazing,” the president said.

“And third, notice which way the troops are facing — toward the aircraft. Not one is faced outward, as you might expect if they were there to protect it.”

“Could they be guarding against the hijackers doing something?”

“Another place, another time — maybe.” Bud advanced the recording. “But not when you take into account this.” The image slowed to a normal rate.

“What are those?” The president leaned in, closer to the screen. From the front of the 747 a squat-looking tug appeared pulling a short train of baggage containers. Or were they? The four dark-colored cubes sat on separate carts in the train, which made a tight half-circle turn behind their tow vehicle and came to a stop near the right rear cargo hatch. Two other vehicles approached from the same direction.

“The one that went to the back is a GPU — Ground Power Unit,” Bud explained as he let the recording run on. “It provides power for the aircraft system when the engines are off. Air-conditioning and the like. They’ll be running a cable to ‘plug it in.’ The other one is a heavy lift truck — a sort of forklift.”

The president glanced worriedly at the DCI and NSA. “This is not comforting, gentlemen.”

“It gets worse,” Bud said. He advanced the scene further.

“Here you can see they’ve opened the cargo hatch at the rear,” the DCI commented as the picture sped by at eight times normal speed, “and are unloading the baggage containers. Okay, Bud.”

The picture slowed to actual. “Watch carefully, sir,” Bud directed.

After the last baggage container was removed by the lift, several soldiers manhandled the first of the four dark boxes onto the lift, though the machine itself did most of the work. Four soldiers looked down from the hold as the box began to rise.

“Sir, that is a heavy lift vehicle,” Bud pointed out. “You saw that it took two baggage containers off at a time. Those are not light. Now note the trouble it’s having with these objects.”

Haltingly, the box rose. Its weight visibly affected the lift, whose rear tires bounced as the bulk of the back-mounted counterweights struggled to keep the vehicle planted on the ground. The clarity of the picture allowed the soldiers in the cargo hold to be seen stretching their arms downward, as if willing the box to rise. When the first was raised and pushed in on the rollers, the second was loaded onto the lift. Herb Landau had already made a call to Langley, directing that the analysts working on the images identify the capacity of that lift vehicle.

Bud pressed the fast-search button. “Whatever they loaded took an hour to complete.”

“And they were damn heavy,” the DCI added, shifting in his seat to relieve a sudden twinge.

“This is kind of hard to pick up, but watch the shadows.” Bud slowed the recording, pointing to the hidden side of the aircraft. “There comes a mobile ramp, just like the old days.”

“You don’t see those much anymore.” Air-conditioned ramps and elevated lounges for the jumbos these days, the president thought. But the president still walks up a set of stairs to board Air Force One.

When the ramp made contact there was a visible jolt. It had to back off and line up a second, and then a third time to correctly align with the number one door.

“He’s a novice, sir,” Bud said. His Air Force days gave him the confidence to analyze this. “The driver of that ramp truck is probably a soldier.” Another point. Bud had never seen the president angry, even in his days as the VP, but he sensed now that the man was. He drew audible breaths through his nose, both nostrils flaring. “There, at the front.” Three figures jogged past the nose of the 747, disappearing behind it. “Now watch the bottom of the stairs — here. You can just barely see it.” Thin shadows appeared, then faded. “One. There goes number two. And three.” A minute later the ramp pulled away and drove out of view, leaving just the aircraft standing alone, ringed by the soldiers and attended by the GPU. The TV went off.

The president stared at the screen for a few more seconds. There was a silence. Only the soft crackling of the static charge dissipating from the screen’s surface was heard.

Bud knew it was time. He was reversing a decision he had made the day before. “Sir, there are some obvious questions raised by this.” He motioned to the TV. “Before we get to those I need to inform you of something.”

“You make it sound ominous.”

“It very well could be, Mr. President.” Bud’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He wanted a drink of water, but there was none close. “Yesterday Director Landau informed me of an…operation that was carried out during the last administration. Initially I made the decision not to inform you. The information is extremely sensitive.”

The president understood. “Deniability.”

Bud nodded.

Director Landau said, “Apparently the operation was conceived at the highest level of the Agency and carried out upon the authority of the previous director.”

“What are we talking of?”

“Sir,” Bud began, “an asset we have high in the Libyan military responded to a request from us and notified the Agency of a trip Colonel Qaddafi was taking to Rome. We knew he was having health problems — gallbladder ulcerations, I believe — so the trip was anticipated, but the exact time was unknown. Our asset gave us that. The colonel underwent surgery for the problem in Italy.”

“I heard nothing of this,” the president said, his voice up considerably. “I understood the Italians were distancing themselves from him.”

“Exactly, which is why it was so quiet. Another reason being that the Agency didn’t want the information out. That might have caused the colonel to cancel his trip. They wanted him there. It’s even possible the Agency exerted pressure on the Italians — through which channels we don’t know — to let Qaddafi in. We just don’t know, and probably never will.”

“Why? Can’t the CIA trace this, Herb. It was internal, so what is stopping you from finding out?”

“Sir,” the DCI said, pushing himself upright. He found himself slowing in chairs more. “Any investigation would invariably lead to our asset in Libya. He very possibly could be compromised. Weighing his value as an intelligence source against the negligible benefit we might gain from getting the ‘whole picture,’ it is not worth it.”

“He was not involved in what happened?”

“No, sir,” Bud responded.

“Not at all,” the DCI agreed emphatically. “He was used.”

“I don’t believe I need to know any details about the asset, Herb. Bud?”

“I agree.”

The president felt relieved, though he had no idea why. “Good. Go on.”

“While Qaddafi was in Rome for the surgery, an agent of ours was ordered to switch the blood supply for the colonel. The agent was employed by the hospital, so it was relatively easy. Again, we don’t know if he was a plant specifically for this purpose or if he had been working there for some time. Checking could be detrimental.” Bud waited. He knew a question was coming.

“And why was the blood switched?”

“To assassinate Colonel Qaddafi.” Again Bud paused. The president did not react. “Our agent replaced the blood designated for the surgery with tainted blood.”

“Tainted?” the president asked, coolly.

“Yes. The blood was purposely contaminated with trace amounts of plutonium chloride. That’s plutonium in salt form, and it dissolves rapidly in fluids. It doesn’t act as a poison. It does, however, do horrible things to cells, especially blood cells.”

“And the effect?”

Bud drew a breath. “Our indications are that the colonel is presently suffering from advanced leukemia.”

“Can you explain the Agency’s logic behind this?”

“I think so,” the DCI said, knowing he would have to choose his words carefully. “I’ll ignore the obvious because I have no way of knowing why a few men chose to ignore the law. However, there was considerable intelligence from our asset concerning the colonel’s reneging on his promises to end support for terrorism. He may have been gearing up for revenge attacks on Americans. He has never forgiven us for killing his daughter in the eighty-six raid. Plus, there may have been some direct PLO pressure during and after the Gulf War. My predecessors believed this was the best solution. It would provide a reasonable cover, possibly even to the colonel himself, and with a little disinformation — leaks about his ‘long-term illness’—there could be a logical explanation. That, though, is where my predecessors screwed up.

“Tracing leaks is not difficult. We usually pass information to European sources first. That gets it into their press fast, and ours pretty soon after that. All intelligence services have usual channels for routine disclosures.”

“Routine I can understand,” the president said, “but this was not routine. Not by any stretch.”

“I know. Why they handled the operation that way… I don’t know. I’m at a loss, but the fact remains: That aspect of the operation virtually assured that Qaddafi would find out that we were responsible.”

“So, this is his revenge. And he’s still alive?”

“We don’t know for certain,” Bud responded. “He hasn’t been seen in public for six months. He even missed the Pan Arab Summit in Tunisia four months ago. As for revenge…maybe.”

“It seems fairly obvious.” The president raised his brow. “Or not?”

“There’s more, sir.” Bud ran through the rest of the information quickly in his head.

A deep, nasal breath. “Yes?”

“As we said before our asset has been giving us valuable intelligence on terrorist networks and activities for some time now, including a warning earlier this year that an attempt on the life of the president was being trained for. He gave specific details that match very closely with the actual assassination.”

The president’s eyes went wide. “We knew there was a threat before…and nothing was done?”

“Yes, sir, and President Bitteredge was informed. He refused to allow any overt safety measures to be taken because of the chance it might compromise our asset. It was his decision.”

“So some wild, unauthorized operation carried out years ago has led to this? God!” He stood, shoving both hands deep in his pockets.

The DCI was pleased that the man was angry. Truly angry.

The president looked back to Bud. When their eyes met the anger drained instantly, replaced by a sense of coming disbelief. “Your face tells me there’s more, Bud.”

At least this is the last surprise — I hope. “Mr. President, just before this meeting Director Landau informed me of some very disturbing news — especially so considering what we’ve just seen. Herb…”

“Mr. President, it is our belief that the Libyans may have the capability to construct a nuclear weapon.”

Slowly the president sat down again. “And it may be on that plane.” His teeth were clenched. “I do not expect that it’s an accident this is all happening at this time. I would like some explanations. One minute.” He walked to his desk and picked up the interoffice phone. “Mary, I’d like you to notify my nine o’clock that we’ll have to reschedule… No, no specific time yet… Thank you.” He took his seat again and motioned to the DCI.

“Sir, have you heard of Anatoly Vishkov?”

“A vague memory, that’s all. Nothing specific.”

Herb continued. “He’s the thorn in the side of the Russians, and a major reason the Cubans are still at odds with their former big brother over reforms. He was a nuclear physicist, still is, but now he has no real allegiance. Sort of a wunderkind weapons designer, until he took a trip.”

The president remembered. It showed on his face. “He was the one who defected.”

“Correct,” the DCI affirmed. “An act more damaging because it was to a ‘brother’ country. I know, it seems strange, but the Soviets of old could accept someone like Vishkov coming over to our side. But to defect—emigrate may be a more choice word — to a fellow Communist country? And worse yet, the Cubans let him stay…and guaranteed his safety. A lot of things have changed in Russia but not so much that their military would let a scientist of his caliber leave their domain. Especially the Strategic Rocket Forces. They keep a tight hold on their people, and they do consider them their people. Their own domain. That makes Vishkov a very lucky, and a very shrewd, man. The only reason Castro hasn’t given him back is because he is married to the sister of a very high-ranking military officer, General Eduardo Echevarria Ontiveros. He was with Castro during the revolution, even at the attack on the barracks.”

“So this general is protecting Vishkov?”

“Correct, again, Mr. President Our sources indicate that a byproduct of all this business with Vishkov is a strain between Castro and a small faction of the military with ties to Ontiveros.”

“Then how does Vishkov fit into the picture? Is he working with, or for, the Libyans?”

Landau shook his head. “Not directly. Let me explain. We assume that he began marketing his designs after his defection. Selling them. Probably for cash, but we’re not one hundred percent sure of that. He might not actually need the money, but it’s certain he’s getting a bundle of it. To date, through intermediaries, he has sold designs for two weapons. Unfortunately, we were unable to acquire only one of the sets — the Libyans got the other one.”

“Whoa! Whoa! Hold on. We bought one of his designs?”

Landau might have been a subordinate, but not in wisdom. Holding such back was not his way. “If we didn’t, someone would have, and I am prepared to keep Vishkov in furs and caviar as long as necessary to keep his designs out of the wrong hands.”

The president hadn’t experienced a subtle lecture since his college days. It reminded him that being wrong was a variable whenever one made snap judgments. He knew that, as the nation’s leader, he couldn’t base his decisions on emotions. There was still much to learn. “You’re right, Herb. Point well taken, and I’ll personally kick in for the next can of beluga.”

“Yes, sir,” Landau said, chuckling only slightly. “Now we know that Qaddafi purchased a set of designs through his IRA contacts. We’ve known for many years that he wants nuclear weapons. Just about any leader in the Middle East would. He’s tried in the past to buy them whole from India and from the Chinese.”

“Herb, I’m not well versed on this issue, but I thought the actual design of a weapon was not extremely complicated, I mean, we’ve had college students design bombs for their theses and doctorates for over ten years. Some guy did it while I was at UCLA.”

“I may be less versed than you.” Both men looked to Bud.

“My specialty was defensive penetration. I know a little, and probably as much about Vishkov.” Bud mentally reached back to his days as a member of the military ‘in club.’ “First, you’re partly right about the design aspect of it. The general design is within the abilities of most physics grad students, and a more detailed one could probably be managed by those same students with a little added knowledge and some delving on their part. The problem is that all these designs lack detailed spec sheets. Those are the parts lists: everything you’d actually need to build the thing. The builders of the first A-bomb called it the ‘gadget,’ and rightly so. Even the stuff we have today — artillery shells, warheads, etcetera — is extremely difficult to construct because of the close tolerances. Some of it’s unbelievable. A few microns off and the thing doesn’t work. You just end up with a squashed core and a minor radioactive mess.”

“But Vishkov made some breakthrough in the design,” Landau interjected.

“If there was a breakthrough, why wasn’t it bigger news to our intelligence agencies?”

The DCI’s silence signaled his non answer.

“Bud?”

He didn’t know, either. “I think we need someone more knowledgeable to brief us on that point.” The president and DCI agreed.

“Okay. So they may have placed a weapon on the aircraft. Three questions. First: Can they build a nuclear weapon? They have the plans, but what about the material and the technology to actually construct it? Second: What are they going to do with it if there is a nuclear weapon? Third: What can we do to stop this?”

Bud thought the chief executive was remarkably calm. “Sir, trying to answer the first right now will be useless until we get some technical information first. As for what they’ll do, I think we need the input of the NSC on that…” Bud saw the president nod, signaling him to continue. “My thoughts, well”—Bud brought a hand behind his head, pinching the neck muscles—“this feels like an overall effort. It’s entirely possible that both the incidents are related. The assassination could have been meant to embarrass us and prove that we’re vulnerable. It also can add a factor of disarray to the transitional period. Your perceived inexperience probably was seen as the perfect target to interject some chaos.” Bud hated to say that, but it was reality. The press, fueled by the opposing candidates in the presidential campaign, had had a field day with the then vice presidential candidate. Fortunately it was largely ignored by the voting public, but, knowing the media, Bud was sure it would be hashed up shortly. Doubt was an easy sell in the papers. “The hijacking may be planned to exploit any confusion caused by the assassination. Maybe they’ll push for some concessions on who knows what. With the statement they issued anything could be on their wish list.”

The president left the trio of questions for a moment. “What does Delta think?”

“They’re in the early stages of planning,” Bud answered. “Andrew says they need more intelligence — how many hijackers, what weapons, etcetera. And they’re going to need to know what may be on there. If they go in, they’ll have more than the hijackers to deal with.”

The president went back to his desk and flipped open his gray schedule book. “Bud, you have overall authority for handling this situation. Any final decisions are mine, but your recommendations will carry weight. Get the ball rolling if you need to, then inform me. I want a report at two this afternoon on progress, and if anything major happens I want to know immediately. Herb, any chance the asset you spoke of can get some information for us about what’s on the plane?”

“Possibly,” Landau replied. “But it will almost certainly compromise him.”

“Which means?”

“We’ll have to extract him.”

There were ramifications to everything a president or high government official decided or authorized, this event being a good example. The president pondered the decision. Reaction! He was forced into reacting to the assassination and the hijacking. The thought irked him, and also reminded him to be prudent. “Go ahead. I’ll put it in writing. Is this going to fall under the covert operations reporting requirement?”

“The extraction, yes.” The DCI wanted to add a caution, “But…”

“We’ll report on that after the fact,” the president said. Landau smiled and nodded. “I’m going to get Gordy in here. He needs to know about this, but I want the nuke theory kept quiet. Only those that need to know get it. No leaks.”

There was no response. It was an order that needed none.

“Let’s get to it and hope for the best” The president looked hopeful and confident to Bud. That was good, he thought, but then remembered the president’s stone debating face. He brushed that thought aside, which was just as well, because if he had looked closer he might have seen the worry in the chief executive’s eyes.