October's Ghost

CHAPTER FIFTEEN RETURN TO SENDER

Becoming a spy was frighteningly easy.

Samuel Paul Garrity had done so because, like others who chose treason as an avocation, he wanted to get back at a government, at a system that he believed had prevented him from living the American Dream. That concept was no more than a pipe dream fed to the eager masses who wanted something better, he knew, and had for a long time. There was no dream out there. Just a bait, an illusion to satisfy the desires of those who wanted more. But they could never reach it. Like Garrity, they were treading water, unable to get ahead enough to keep from falling behind. It was a cycle of desire, appeasement, and denial that he had decided to step out of. No longer was he in the loop. In fact, he was so far out that he didn’t even retain empathy for those still in it. Sam Garrity had found his brass ring, and to hell with those who were stupid enough not to go for their own.

As an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, Garrity had at one time been a loyal citizen who found some pride in serving his country, even in the oft-considered menial work he did. The job had once been a source of fanciful dreams and musings as to what the Agency really did behind the red doors that marked the secure areas he could never hope to enter. But the natural curiosity had led him to seek out, on his own, the knowledge of what the wondrous things might be. There were dozens of companies in the area surrounding the nation’s capital that carried the “latest” in electronic and surveillance equipment that those in private security and investigative fields used in their daily work. These showrooms were also open to the general public, as a buck was a buck, and there were thousands of bright, shiny toys to cause the amateur sleuth to drool uncontrollably.

Sam Garrity found himself in awe of the gear that was out there in the open, for the taking — with the liberation of a large amount of money from his savings. As he ogled at the plethora of “spy” toys, he came upon a device that he could combine with his passion of the moment — a high-end personal computer that had already eaten up a good chunk of that savings. It looked much like a small photocopy machine or, to an educated eye, an expensive scanner that converted documents or pictures placed under its cover to bits of digitized data to be stored on a computer connected to it. It was exactly that, and much more, and he had, after a particularly effective sales pitch from the store’s manager, taken it home with no idea what he would one day do with it.

This day, though, after a long night cleaning the mess left by the obscenely well paid executives who ruled Langley like the appointed monarchs he saw them as, Garrity knew exactly what to do. As usual he took a short nap when he arrived at his two-bedroom home, then, later, went into his “playroom.” In it were his babies, the computer and the machine hooked to it that had helped change his life to one where he was in control.

He repeated the same procedure each morning after work, though there was not always a yield from his efforts. First he switched on the IBM and started the program, called Deep Reader, that ran the scanning device. Next, he took the sheets removed from the DCI’s legal pad and scanned them one at a time into the computer memory that the program had set aside for the task. Several sensitive lasers swept over the blank pages and “read” the indentations left by the pressure of writing instruments on the sheets above. The process was familiar to law-enforcement agencies, who often used it to uncover the most mundane scribbles to tie criminal activities, or the plans of such, to certain individuals by way of handwriting analysis. Garrity knew who had written that which Deep Reader was scrutinizing and separating into distinct word patterns from the different pages. That man had made his path of treason all the easier with his incessant scribbling, something Sam had noticed during several of his late-night cleaning sessions while the director worked at his desk, despotically pointing out areas that needed more attention with the sweeper or the polish rag. At first he had taken the sheets on a lark, just to see if his new toy would work. Then, when references to individuals and groups he was familiar with started showing up, he made the leap from sleuth to spy, offering his services to the first one on the list. Surprising to him, they had accepted and were paying generously into a Canadian bank account that would ensure a very comfortable retirement beyond what he could ever have hoped for otherwise.

“What’s on the director’s tiny little mind today?” he asked the screen, watching the digitized hourglass drain as the five-minute-per-page process wound to its end. It was more complicated than just scanning the page for indentations, a trick that had once been accomplished by a method known as electrostatic detection. That was archaic compared to this. Deep Reader not only “saw” what was on the page, more important, it sorted through the numerous words and scribbles from potentially tens of pages above to piece together the logical word strings and other writings of that day. Because there could still be “leftovers” from the previous day, the program “looked back” at what had been culled twenty-four hours earlier and disregarded it. So much data had been stored since Garrity first began his homespun business that he had to install a backup to dump the excess to; his main hard drive just wasn’t big enough.

A bright blue FINISHED flashed in the graphically raised icon box. Garrity clicked on that with a sweep of the mouse and saw that Deep Reader had discerned seven separate pages of notes the director had made. He scrolled through them slowly, looking first for any notations that pertained directly to his paymaster. Those that didn’t were delivered as well. What happened after that was not his concern.

The fourth page yielded what he wanted. He had trained himself to decipher the director’s exaggeratedly left-leaning — no pun intended — penmanship. The letters were always spaced close together, some overlapping, especially the cases where there were two of the same next to each other. This one looked as though he was jotting down something someone else was saying, as the thoughts were far too coherent to be his alone.

“Shit!” Garrity said loudly, too much so, as evidenced by the “What’s wrong, dear?” from his wife in the kitchen. He dispatched with her question and went back to the notes. “They know,” he said more quietly. “But how…?” He found the answer on the next page. “Oh, my God.” That guy wasn’t just blowing smoke after all. He instinctively looked around the room, afraid for the first time since beginning his treachery that there was a real danger of being discovered. He knew that the DDI, that Drummond asshole, was looking for a leak in the wrong place, but what the Agency knew now could lead to his employers, which could lead to him.

He had to warn them that the Agency knew. He quickly saved the data and switched the computer off, then went to the front room. “Where’s the paper?”

“The Post’s on the couch,” his wife answered from the other room.

“No, the USA Today.” His eyes frantically searched the living room.

“Probably on the porch.” The back door closed, and the motor of their new Taurus started up as his wife headed off to work.

Garrity was out there and back with the desired paper as his wife pulled out of the driveway. He flipped hurriedly to the sports section and looked for the… The Cards did it again, defying all… A. That was it. A was 1. The keying system was simple enough. Find the seventh word in the first story on the sports page concerning the dominant sport in season. There was none more dominant than baseball. The first letter of that word would then yield a number. A was 1; B, 2. And so on, stopping at 4 and starting with 1 again when E was reached, and again four letters later. The corresponding number was then added to the telephone number of a phone booth Garrity had preselected, and that number was then to be entered on the touch-tone phone after dialing his contact’s pager. It would then be reverse-deciphered, giving his contact a place to reach him in one hour. That was the drill — one hour from the time he entered the number.

For added security he never called the pager from his home phone; that he would do from a pay phone chosen at random as he drove. He grabbed the keys to their old Audi — he and his wife, because they worked non-concurrent schedules, always took the nicer Taurus to their respective jobs — and went out to the double-wide driveway. The cracked vinyl of the Audi’s front seat squeaked under his weight when he climbed in. He pumped the gas several times in the ritual they had mastered over the years to get the finicky car started after a long time dormant. From the gas gauge it looked as if neither he nor his wife had driven it in days. He turned the key, keeping his foot on the accelerator. The starter spun, the engine coughed, then a series of rapid clicks came from the front, and the coughing ceased. He twisted the key again, getting the same clicking, but no motor sounds at all.

“Damn!” It was the starter! He’d replaced it just three months ago with that reconditioned one his wife had warned him about. ‘Just buy a new one.’ She’d been right again.

He got out and raised the hood in the expected and useless way. There was nothing under there he could fix. The damned thing needed a new starter…again!

Why now? He couldn’t walk to a pay phone and just hang around for an hour, not in the neighborhood surrounding his quiet residential enclave. The phones there were frequented by drug dealers, and often by the police busting them. That he couldn’t chance. There was only one way, and it was a breach of the security measures he’d agreed to. But there was no other way. He walked into the house and dialed the number of his contact from memory, adding the 1 to each of the digits in his home phone number as he entered them with ten touches on the keypad.

“DiContino,” Bud said into the phone, checking the time on his Casio. Drummond would be there any minute.

“Bud, it’s Ellis. Listen, I don’t know what’s going on, but I just ran interference for the President with the chairman of House Armed Services. He called and wanted to know why Kneecap was rolled out at Andrews with General Granger on board, and also about the chopper out back.”

Vorhees was such a control freak, Bud had come to know firsthand. His domain was his, and in a way the NSA could understand that from recent experience, but he took his legislative duties to the line where oversight blurred with command. Never made it past colonel, did you, Richard? Maybe this was his way to get what had been denied him by that mine. “Ellis, you did right. Just spout the party line if he keeps bellyaching. The Pentagon is quietly calling it a readiness exercise.”

“That’s what I figured, and I told him so,” the President’s chief of staff explained. “But Vorhees isn’t the big problem. Jack just got a call from the Post asking for confirmation that the congressman had contacted the White House asking about ‘emergency relocation procedures’ for the President.” Jack Duffy was the White House director of communications, the newly in-vogue position that had replaced the press secretary as the President’s point man with the media.

“Damn. Is it spreading?”

“The senior White House correspondent from ABC is digging. If they get any sort of confirmation on this, we can expect something on the tube.”

“Jack didn’t give the Post anything even close to one, right?”

The COS snickered. “He’s going to ‘get back to them.’ ”

“I suggest he takes his time,” Bud said. “The day’s half-gone already.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Things should be under control by then.” I hope.

Gonzales heard the words “under control” louder than the rest of the weak assurance. “Bud, is there anything I need to know? Anything the Secret Service detail should be aware of?”

Bud knew he’d have to expand the loop, because the COS had a right, and a responsibility, to know the story now that things were accelerating toward some sort of resolution… or confrontation. “The DDI is due here anytime. Where are you?”

“My office.”

The COS’s office was just down the hall from the NSA’s. “Why didn’t you just walk over for this?”

Another snicker. “Your deputy is as much a pit bull as I am when it comes to protecting his boss.”

“Nick takes his job seriously. Why don’t you come over and sit in with Greg and me. We’ll fill you in.”

“Bless me with your gatekeeper?”

It was Bud’s turn to laugh. “Done.”

“Now is the time, Fidel.” Raul had never seen his brother like this. He no longer resembled the charismatic, vigorous leader that he was just hours before. There was a look about him that was peaceful, of all things. A sort of resignation, but without the sorrow he had expected to see. Was the revenge they were going to unleash really that redeeming for him? Raul could think of no other reason for his brother’s demeanor.

“Yes.”

Raul unfolded the paper he had jotted his notes on. “There are several target options, Fidel. Of course, there is the obvious one of Washington, but I believe others should be considered.”

The president’s eyes looked upward as he leaned back. “The guilty parties must pay. Those responsible for destroying the Revolution must feel its wrath.”

“They will. There is no doubt.” Raul took a chair and pulled it next to his brother, sitting and leaning close to him. “But there are options other than the American capital.” He put on the glasses he hated so much and looked to his notes. “A very good target would be New York. The destruction of that city would disrupt the financial dealings of the yanquis for years. Their vaunted stock exchange would be leveled. The headquarters of many of their largest corporations are located there. It would be a crushing blow.”

Raul went to the next on his list of three. “There is also Los Angeles, on America’s West Coast. While not as financially important to the capitalists as New York, it is a heavily used transportation center vital to communications and distribution of manufactured goods. It is also the dominant port of trade with the East. And its population is highly vulnerable. Also, with the warhead being fused for a surface burst, the radioactive fallout will be carried by the prevailing winds eastward over the heartland of the country. There could potentially be millions more deaths over several decades from that effect alone.”

Fidel took in a slow, deep breath and continued to give his brother the time to plead his case. There was no reason not to. That which had to be done would come to pass.

“Finally, Miami. We have many enemies there, and some of the insurgents are likely from that population. It is also an important center for commerce in the southern United States.” Raul could see that his brother seemed disinterested in his propositions, especially the final one.

“Fidel, you must choose a target. General Asunción needs to program the guidance system.”

“Yes.” A smile came to his face. “They must be punished.”

“The target, Fidel.”

“I have chosen it.”

Raul suspected correctly that his presentation had been for naught. The president’s mind had been made up for some time, he realized, knowing that the seat of power of a mighty nation was going to be targeted.

His musing was only half-right.

Gonzales said nothing after hearing the NSA’s explanation of the situation to him. His family had fled Cuba when Castro seized power more than three decades before, and he had thought when the rebellion began how much his late father would have loved to set foot in the land of his birth just once more. And now that bastard in Havana was planning to kill potentially millions because he didn’t accept the handwriting on the wall.

“I’m glad I filled you in before Greg got here,” the NSA admitted. The DDI had been delayed waiting for imagery of the area where the missile had been found. There was also a possible complication, he had told Bud, but did not want to discuss it on the phone. Even a secure one. Drummond didn’t wave red flags for no reason, leaving Bud wondering what could possibly complicate the situation any more than it already was.

“Holy cow,” Gonzales commented mildly, though his eyes hinted at the language he truly wanted to use.

“You can see why we’ve got to keep this airtight. Jack doesn’t get this, okay? That way he’s not lying when he is sweetly noncommittal.”

Gonzales nodded. “Do you know what this is?”

“What? A repeat of ‘62?” Bud had seen the eerie parallel early on. “Let’s hope we’re better at keeping it under wraps than they were.”

A few heavy footsteps through the connecting office of the deputy NSA signaled the DDI’s arrival.

“Sorry it took so… Ellis.” Drummond laid the security case on the coffee table.

“He’s in, Greg,” Bud said, going on with his own complication. “We may have a press problem.”

The DDI sat down on the couch and began removing the pictures he’d brought over from the case. “We may have a bigger one than that. Look.”

Bud sat next to the DDI on the two-person couch, with Gonzales standing to the side.

“Good shots,” Bud commented. He could tell they were from Aurora’s SAR, but Gonzales wasn’t cleared for that knowledge. To him they would just be amazing overhead imagery.

“NPIC processed them F-A-S-T. This is straight from the analysts who did the workup.” He handed a synopsis of their findings to the NSA.

“What… A CSS-Four?”

“Or a CZ-Three space-launch booster,” Drummond said. “Though that’s a matter of semantics. They’re identical in all respects except for what goes on top.” He pointed to the best image that showed the weapon’s huge diameter. “Fidel is proving to be adept at these secret ‘arrangements.’ First Vishkov, and then this.”

“The Chinese supplied him with this!” Bud’s neck reddened by the second. “That space-facility thing was just a sham, then?”

“It’s looking that way. If it ever came out that this booster was there, he could try and explain it away as just part of the process to build the facility. A mockup or whatever. And to be truthful, without knowing that he had something to put on top, it would have looked like just part of his loony schemes.”

Gonzales saw that it was much bigger than the missile described by Bud a few minutes earlier. “How did we miss this?”

It was the question the Agency—“we” invariably was translatable to “you”—forever found itself answering when things didn’t go as those in higher places expected they should. “The Chinese were in Cuba working on the space facility in the first months of ‘91, which were pretty busy for us, you know. If it came in, it was probably then. And remember, this was one missile which we knew nothing about. The Navy lost a whole freighterful going from North Korea to Iran not long back, and they knew what they were looking for. The Agency is not the all-knowing, all-seeing power that a lot of folks think it is.”

“I’m not blaming, Greg,” Gonzales explained. “It’s just hard to fathom that Castro would go to such lengths.”

That struck Bud. Why would he? He read over the report again, picking out the details on the CSS-4’s performance, particularly the estimated-range data. “This thing has a seven-thousand-five-hundred-mile range.”

That was an academic statement to the DDI. “Yes. So?”

“Ellis has a point,” Bud said. “Why would Castro go to the lengths he has to give himself a delivery system that is overkill? There were other missile boosters out there that he could get a hold of that would be easier to hide and to base. The Chinese sold some CSS-Ones to Saudi Arabia awhile back. That would have had plenty of range to reach any target in the lower forty-eight, and it’s quite a bit smaller. Or those SS-Fours the Russians were ‘destroying’ after INF.” The Intermediate Nuclear Forces treaty between the United States and the former USSR required the destruction of all surface missile systems with range envelopes of three hundred to three thousand miles. “We know that some of those made their way to Iran. Why not Cuba? Wouldn’t that have made for an easy match? Old warhead to newer booster of the same type.”

Drummond’s mental process put on the brakes. “Wait, what are we assuming? That the original booster never worked, or that it stopped being functional at some point?”

“Or that Castro decided it wasn’t what he wanted anymore,” Bud suggested ominously, more so in his own mind. The scenario was beginning to take shape.

“I don’t follow you,” Drummond said.

Bud walked to the globe that sat in the far corner of his office. It was no more than a showpiece — something he thought looked nice. He spun it almost half a world past the United States. “Oh, my God.”

The exclamation was spoken softly, as if a prayer.

“What is it, Bud?” Ellis asked.

The NSA still faced away from the men. “Greg, you’re versed in Castro’s ways from the missile crisis.”

“Yeah.”

“Who did he blame for it all collapsing?” A hand rested softly on the globe’s surface.

“The Russians. Why?”

Bud’s hand lifted a bit, leaving just one finger to trace on the uneven surface west from the Urals. “The speech he gave at the fifth party congress last year — do you remember the text?”

“Sure,” the DDI said. He had read the translation of the five-hour speech in full in preparation for a roundtable discussion hosted by GW University. “He went on for hours haranguing all the ‘enemies of the Revolution.’ “

“Were we among those?”

“Right near the top.” Drummond’s mind seized on one of his words.

“Near? Who was at the top, Greg? Who did Castro say had committed the greatest crimes against the Revolution?” Bud’s finger straightened and pointed down upon a single city.

“Oh, no,” the DDI said, looking at the still-unaware chief of staff. “It can’t be.”

Bud turned back. “The extra range isn’t overkill; it’s necessary.”

“For what?” Ellis nearly demanded.

“To reach his target,” Drummond said in a shaky voice.

“What target?” The COS saw both men go a shade lighter before the answer came.

“Fidel. The target?”

They had done worse than attack the Revolution, Fidel Castro thought — they had forsaken it. That transgression must be avenged. It must.

“Moscow.”