October's Ghost

CHAPTER FIVE SOUNDINGS

“What do you think?” Drummond waited patiently for the reply.

I think Anthony has a lot to learn,” Deputy Director, Operations, Mike Healy answered. “I didn’t even know he was talking to Paredes.” He shook his head ruefully.

“This is his thing, Mike, and I mean his.” Drummond took a long drink from the red-and-white can held tightly in his fist. “You and I are window dressing on this one. Talking to Paredes isn’t the half of it. He’s micromanaging SNAPSHOT all the way. All my people in Miami have been reporting directly to him, and only to him, since this op came to life.” “All” meant the two Agency screeners attached to the INS for the purpose of identifying those of lesser character who might come through the favorite port of entry for those fleeing Cuba and other Caribbean nations. That Langley had people operating there at all was a closely held secret, even though the practice did not technically violate the restriction on the CIA operating within the United States. They were “consultants,” though certain civil-liberties zealots would obviously see it otherwise. “He’s afraid the other Cuban-American groups might get wind of us being sweet on the CFS and wants to personally know if that’s happening, or if any scuttlebutt is coming over with any refugees.”

“Why the CFS, Greg?”

The DDI gestured futility at trying to decipher any of his boss’s decisions.

“Hmm,” Healy grunted. His enthusiasm level with the men supposed to fill the void once Castro was gone had barely reached the low threshold maintained by his Intelligence counterpart. “I can’t figure him out, Greg. Those guys he’s championing are bad news, and the company they keep doesn’t do anything for their social standing. Anthony can’t dispute that their benefactor is hooked up with the druggies, can he?”

“He sure can, plus he refuses to believe that the CFS is mixed up in it.” Drummond gave a “Go figure” shrug. “The tooth fairy is putting bags of hundreds under their pillows.”

“Still no luck on figuring out who’s signing the checks?”

“Zip. S and T is still trying with DIOMEDES,” the DDI answered, referring to the Science and Technology Directorate’s section that was linked to Federal Reserve computers and those of foreign banks with holdings in the United States. It was all very quiet, and borderline illegal. “He hates it, but as long as Coseros is in the equation, I can look wherever I want to find my leak. If something turns up on the CFS in looking, too bad. Anthony can’t stop me on that, despite what he believes.”

“His head’s in a hole,” Healy commented with disdain.

“Evidence, Mike. He wants evidence. Short of an indictment, I don’t know what will convince him. He doesn’t trust the Bureau, he doesn’t trust you or me. I don’t know who he trusts.”

“Himself.” Healy’s chest heaved with a suppressed chuckle. “The worst possible person.”

“I know.” The DDI’s secure line buzzed before he could depress himself anymore. “Drummond.”

“Greg, it’s Seth.” Seth Feirstein was roughly the DDI’s equal in the National Security Agency, the super-secret government monolith based at Fort Meade that did wonderful things with communications and cryptographics. “Listen, remember the watch we put up for you on the satellite lines out of Panama?”

“Yeah,” Drummond confirmed, his mind silently praying for good news. “Please tell me you’ve got something.”

“We’ve got something.”

The DDI gave a thumbs-up to Healy and mouthed the name “Coseros.” He got a beaming smile in return. “Go on.”

“Three groups of lines were finally pegged as his primary nonsecure international links. Once we nailed those down, we ran back on the U.S. long-distance calls to them.”

“I don’t want to know how,” the DDI said. He already did know how. The National Security Agency had the best electronic witch doctors on their staff, men and women who knew how to skirt the bounds of legality with the deftness of a ballerina and how to cross it with the stealth of an apparition.

“I’ve got two numbers for you. Both have called at least five times in the past month, and one over twenty.”

“Where’s the higher one located?”

“Area code three-zero-five.”

“Miami,” Drummond said. “Give them both to me.”

The DDI noted both but circled the Miami one. Immediately after hanging up with Feirstein, he hit the speed-dial button for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Think you may have something?” Healy asked before the DDI’s call was picked up.

“I damn sure hope so.” The DDI tapped his pencil nervously. “Gordy?”

“Yeah. Greg, is that you? You sound kind of pumped up,” the FBI director commented.

“I am. Hey, you feel like helping me with some plumbing?”

“Is this about that little drip you think you had?”

“Exactly, except I have a possible stateside contact now. Just a phone number. Think you can manage?”

“I’ll need a wiretap warrant, but we can do that quietly.” The Justice Department, of which the Bureau was part, had a regularly assigned liaison judge from one of the federal courts whose responsibility, in addition to adjudicating cases, was to provide swift warrant processing in matters with potential national-security concerns. The present situation fit that profile to a T. “Two-way street on this. If anything incriminating toward or by Coseros is said…”

“It’s yours.” Drummond nodded with satisfaction. Coseros was a prize to be had, but the DDI had a greater desire. “I want the ass of whoever is wasting water.”

“I hear you. Oh, and isn’t Cuba interesting this time of year?”

The DDI smiled. It was a secure line, and Gordon Jones was not known to be a dummy. “Weather’s looking up a bit here, too.”

Frankie slowed the Chevy along the street, checking house numbers. “There.”

Art undid his belt as Frankie swung into the driveway. “Bingo.”

The car was twenty feet ahead, nosed toward the closed garage door.

“That’s the partial I got,” Frankie said. “Guess he’s home.”

“Let’s go have a talk.”

The two agents walked quietly toward the front of the house, their eyes instinctively searching for that which was out of the ordinary.

“Nice morning,” Frankie observed. “Would you have all your shades drawn?”

“Hmm.” Art stepped up onto the porch, his partner staying in the driveway with her eyes alternating between the front and side of the house.

Art stood listening for a moment, hearing nothing, looking to Frankie for ideas. She shrugged. If Sullivan wasn’t home, then why was his car still there? And where was he? They were questions that would not be answered by them just standing there.

Art tapped on the screen-door frame four times, his body reflexively standing to one side of the opening. “Mr. Sullivan. This is the FBI. We need to speak to you.”

“FBI, my ass!”

Frankie dropped low first, bringing her gun out during the motion. Art did the same, stepping farther aside from the doorway and clear of the windows.

“I’ve got a gun, and I’ll use it!”

The words were strong but slurred. Art and Frankie noticed another thing in them: real fear.

“Listen, George, this is the FBI,” Art said loudly without shouting. He didn’t want to appear to be giving commands. This wasn’t a suspect, after all, just an apparently juiced guy who was afraid for some reason. Seeing someone get wasted could do that, the agents knew.

Art looked to his partner. In barricade situations it was standard to not reveal the locations of all agents on the scene for purposes of security and response potential. In this case, though, doing just the opposite might be the way to go.

“Sullivan, this is Special Agent Aguirre of the FBI. My partner and I just want to talk to you. We know what happened yesterday. We were there. Think…you drove right by us in the alley. You almost creamed my partner.”

The doorknob clicked soon after Frankie’s plea ended. Art cringed, remembering the event that had sent his former partner to the hospital, and nearly to the grave. But this was different, he told himself, repeatedly, as the man behind the door came into view. His hands were empty.

“Frankie,” Art said calmly, his Smith now pointed at the floor and held one-handed.

“The gun’s on the floor,” George Sullivan said, his eyes red and moist. He looked up at Art. “Sorry about yesterday.”

Frankie walked past Art and Sullivan, checking the interior to ensure that all was clear. She was back on the porch a minute later. “Quite a mess in there.”

“Yeah,” Sullivan said, wiping his mouth and eyes with the back of his hand. He leaned to one side, aiming for the doorjamb, but missed. Art caught him, and lowered him to the porch floor.

“Take it easy. You hurt?”

Sullivan looked up at Art, his picture of the dark figure fuzzy. “I knew it couldn’t be the guys, ‘cause I heard a woman. Where…?”

“Right here,” Frankie said, stepping closer.

“Yeah. I mean, I thought they might come back, so I had to, you know…” His face went blank, the alcohol and terror combining to turn his stomach into a cauldron of boiling fluids. He rolled to the right and vomited heavily, sitting back up after a few dry heaves. “Sorry.”

“I think whatever you filled your belly with is better off on the porch,” Art observed. “Did you see who did this?”

“No. No.” Sullivan spit the taste from his mouth. “I found it like this. Man, I don’t want to end up like that guy at Clampett’s.”

“How do we know it was them?” Frankie asked her partner.

“We don’t, but this fits too neatly. Better roll a forensic team out here and get LAPD to string us a crime scene. I’m going to try and sober him up a little.”

Ten minutes later the first of two LAPD units turned the comer. One officer began stringing “banana tape” to cordon off the house, as the other started his own report that would explain why the Bureau was in charge of this scene although in LAPD jurisdiction. The first forensic team would not arrive for another half hour, at which time Art hoped there would be something worthwhile found that they could use to identify and locate the perpetrators. Leads, after all, did not just walk up and bite you. Well, almost never.

“George,” the elderly woman called from behind the police line.

Art noticed that Sullivan, after two cups of straight black provided by a neighbor, was still a bit wobbly. “I’ll help you.” They were at the end of the driveway a few seconds later.

“Mrs. Carroll.”

“George, what happened? I saw the police cars. Are you all right?” Her tiny hand reached across the police line and touched his chin. She knew what part of his problem was, just like she could tell when her late husband stopped off at the bar on his way home from work.

“I’m okay. Someone broke in, that’s all. I came home and found it.”

“Broke in?” Her hand recoiled from its comforting touch and pressed against her lips. “Oh, dear. I should have called, but I wasn’t sure. My stars!”

Art’s sensibilities told him not to read past what had been said to what he wanted to hear, but… “Mrs. Carroll, is it?”

“Louise Carroll,” she affirmed, her eyes falling upon his ID as he held it out. FBI?

“Did you see something?”

“Well, yes, but it didn’t seem like an emergency, so I didn’t want to bother the police.”

Art’s head nodded acceptance. “I understand. Can you tell me what you saw?”

“Yes,” she began. “There were two men. They got out of a very nice car early this morning, right after Good Morning America started. I watch it every morning. They walked around the corner, and then I didn’t see them anymore. I guess I didn’t see them leave because I started my wash for the day.”

“That’s very helpful,” Art told her, easing into the questioning. “Can you describe either of the men?”

She looked downward momentarily, thinking carefully back the few hours. “They were well dressed. Both wore sport coats, but no ties, I believe. I think they were both Mexican, and one had a very thin hairline and a bit of a waist. He was the driver. The other had short, curly hair— it was black — and a mustache. It was quite a distance away, so I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

Art could have kissed her. He looked to Sullivan, and, by his expression, he knew that the men Mrs. Carroll had described were the men who had popped Portero. “Mrs. Carroll, I can’t tell you enough how helpful what you just gave us is. Extremely helpful.”

“I’m a neighborhood-watch chairperson, so I try to keep an eye open for strangers,” she explained. “I just wish I’d called the police right then, darn it!”

“I’d like to have my partner talk to you to write down what you’ve told me, if that would be all right?” Art’s head dipped slightly as he finished the request.

“Of course, but would you like this also?” Mrs. Carroll asked, holding a small slip of notepaper out to the FBI agent.

“What is this?” Art asked.

“The license number of the car.”

This time, the rules and all else be damned, Art Jefferson bent forward and gave the senior citizen a much-deserved peck on the cheek.

They were high-tech dispatchers, directing the movement of billions of dollars of equipment thousands of miles from where they sat. When a customer requested a move, the technicians at the Consolidated Space Operations Center in Colorado Springs carried it out through a series of computer commands that were beamed up to a Milstar communications relay satellite that “bounced” the commands to the intended recipient. Sometimes several bounces were required between the ground and two or three relay satellites before the commands could be acted upon.

The customers, almost exclusively the CIA and the DOD, then were free to use their people to control the activities of the newly positioned satellites and to interpret whatever data was retrieved. CSOC’s job was done at that point, until another move from any planned orbital path was required. It was all very routine.

“Goddammit!” the senior watch technician swore, his section’s routine broken by the single flashing light on his console. He switched his intercom to the channel for the Air Force duty officer for his watch, a two-star general.

“What’s the problem?”

“We’ve got a reactive rotation on number 5604,” the technician reported, referring to the twenty-ton KH-12 just beginning its pass over western Cuba. “As soon as NPIC started shootin’ pictures, we got a warning.”

The National Photographic Interpretation Center, a complex of windowless cubes on the grounds of the Washington Navy Yard, was the arm of the CIA and other governmental intelligence agencies that collected and analyzed imagery from the array of reconnaissance satellites orbiting the globe. Their actions this morning, though quite ordinary, had initiated something unexpected. More than that, actually, something was terribly wrong with number 5604.

“How bad?” the major general, located a hundred feet away in a separate section of CSOC’s modest facility, asked.

The technician checked his status panel for the satellite. “Bad. It’s off eighteen degrees on the lateral, and we’re getting indications of an end-to-end shift.”

“Damn.” The KH-12 was now pointed uselessly off to one side, a problem that could have been dealt with had the satellite not also begun a slow end-over-end spin. Though only minute in relative terms — an expected revolution every three hours, the sensors were showing — it effectively put the bird out of commission. “Any ideas on what happened?”

The technician stared furiously at his status panel, which, other than the attitude and motion-warning indicators, gave him not a clue as to why the malfunction had occurred. “Not a light to tell me shit, sir.” A civilian, the technician was a bit more free to color his language around the staff officer. His thirty years of government service didn’t hurt, either. “My best guess is the stabilizer for the real-time sensors. NPIC was starting to shoot some video, doing a half-degree lens sweep, when the bird started to tilt. I’ll bet the dampers failed, and the lens assembly locked up. When it spun, the bird just spun with it.”

“But why no indicator?”

“Ask the boys at Lockheed,” the technician suggested, his morning now screwed up beyond repair.

The major general would be doing precisely that, through accepted channels and otherwise. But first came the necessity to report to his “customers” at Langley that one of his birds, one they had depended heavily upon during the previous weeks, was now out of the show.

It was quiet in the West Wing, the majority of the staff attending a pre-lunch cake party for the departing secretary of the Vice President. Bud DiContino had stopped in quickly to say a farewell before returning to his office to square things away on the military end of the Cuba operation and await word from the Navy on its overdue boomer. It was troublesome, but at least the Russians weren’t letting it become a wrench in the works. Even General Walker seemed to be more in synch with the plan after the test shot. The charm Kurchatov had laid on couldn’t have hurt either, Bud thought.

The NSA had just dropped a stack of files on his desk when the phone buzzed. “DiContino.”

“Bud, it’s Greg.”

“Oh.”

“Not happy to hear from me?” the DDI said playfully.

“Hoping to hear from Granger.” He explained about the Pennsylvania.

“And they’re still on board? Wow. I guess there is something to be said for this trust thing. You’ll have to teach me it sometime,” Drummond joked. “We don’t do much of that here.”

“It’s a correspondence course. What can I do you for?”

“We have a little problem.”

The DDI’s voice didn’t betray anything beyond the “little” label in his sentence. “I’m listening.”

“Our satellite tasked to get the intel on Cuba just went down.”

“Down as in malfunctioned?” the NSA asked, hopeful that it wasn’t more like succumbing to gravity and burning up in the atmosphere. Bye-bye nine hundred million.

“Yeah. CSOC says it’s a major one.” The DDI took a drink of something on the other end of the line. “Guess there’ll be a shuttle mission for this.”

“Yeah, and who’s gonna pay for it?” The budget battle had stretched to all agencies and departments, choking off contingency funds that had once been earmarked for instances like this. “Greg, we’ve only got two more functioning birds up there, and we can’t pull them off their missions. No way.”

“I know that, but we do have other options.” The DDI let that hang without further exposition. He knew none was necessary.

“You can’t be serious, Greg!” Bud fell back into his chair, pushing the reclining mechanism to its limits. “Do you know what you are really suggesting? I mean, besides the security aspect of it, the cost would be enormous.”

“Look, we could cut back on the amount of imagery we interpret for delivery,” the DDI suggested. “A few passes a day instead of sixteen.”

Bud’s head shook as he leaned forward, his eyes downcast into the hand supporting his forehead. “Greg, this is like asking for the keys to the new ‘vette before I’ve even driven it.”

“Anthony will get them from the President if you don’t hand them over,” the DDI said. “I thought it would be better coming from you. The teamwork thing, remember.”

He was right. Bud’s resistance would only strengthen the DCI’s hand, and give him the opportunity to hear the President say yes to another request. It wasn’t on the far side of smart, but it really wouldn’t be a major undertaking. Not the intended use, for certain, but also not beyond the system’s capabilities. Not much was.

“All right. I’ll clear it with the President. But you’re paying for gas,” Bud informed the DDI, quite seriously despite the euphemism.

A couple million a fill-up. Well, the Agency had wanted the damn gas guzzler in the first place. “Thanks.”

“Just don’t get it shot down,” Bud said. “We’ve lost ‘em there before.”

“Long time ago, Bud. And they ain’t got nothing that can touch this.” It was a partisan boast, but also one quite rooted in fact.

The Japanese technicians had been waiting in the poorly heated housing near the Voyska PVO’s headquarters for just over a week. An hour after dark the word to get to work had finally come, much to their delight.

Eight trucks deposited the joint technical group, made up of senior engineers from six major Japanese companies, outside the access building atop the underground command center. The elevators were loaded with the requisite tools in just a few minutes, then, in four trips, the three separate cars descended to the twenty-five-thousand-square-foot facility, which was divided into five operating areas that were all connected to the main access shaft. The joint technical group followed their Russian escorts into the area in which most of the facility’s work was done, yet there were the fewest people there.

The first reaction at seeing the antiquated computers was a collective snicker, then bemused curiosity as the technicians wandered about the room, examining the equipment — much of the designs obviously pirated from American, French, and Japanese systems — and marveling that any of it was still operating. There was even rust on some of the back panels!

“Time to do it,” the leader of the group said.

General Shergin, there because of duty and no more, looked to his aide, hesitated, then nodded. The junior officer walked to a red box on the wall, unlocked it, and swung the large cover downward. Three levers — looking as old as the computers — were attached side by side. The same number of supply cables entered through the top of the box, but only one exited the bottom. Heat radiated off of the center switch from the thousands of volts flowing through it to the equipment.

The first switch disengaged was that of the primary backup power supply, a diesel-powered generator that would kick in automatically in the event of a power failure. The second switch connected a large array of batteries to the system. These were the last resort, for use only after the generator failed. All that remained was the primary switch, which carried electricity from the Moscow central power grid to the computers. The commander’s aide lowered it completely.

The whine of cooling fans ceased, as did the electronic hum associated with older processing equipment. Performance-monitoring screens went blank, and the old reel tape machines ended their constant recording for eternity. “Done.”

“Okay,” the team leader said. “Let’s do it.”

The men who had been trained in the best technical schools in the world, who could perform complex mathematical operations in their heads, moved toward the six rows of machines with pry bars, cable cutters, and mallets. There was no reason to spare anything. The brand-new equipment was waiting a half a mile away in a climate-controlled warehouse. This room would soon have the same humidity and temperature controls installed, as well as the computers and software to bring the SRF into the twenty-first century. What was here was, simply put, scrap.

The first cabinet unit broke free of its corroded moorings and toppled to its side with only two men pushing it. General Shergin watched this with some interest. His position made a man well aware how much easier destruction was than creation.

The convoy of four vehicles pulled through the gate into the complex located on the western shore of the Bay of Cienfuegos. Soldiers exited the two lead cars, their weapons at the ready. Security was quite adequate out to a mile from where they stood but, as General Juan Asunción knew from the events of the past days, the scorpion that struck was often in one’s own bed.

From the third car a small Caucasian man in handcuffs emerged under the forceful grasp of two more soldiers. He was marched quickly to the general, who stood outside the doors that they had together passed through a countless number of times during their acquaintance, a period at one time cordially accepted but now enforced upon one by the fear of a painful demise.

“Welcome, señor,” Asunción said. “More work to be done.”

The man looked up. He was in his forties but appeared older about the face. Deep lines and loose folds of pale skin attested to some form of confinement away from a sun that had once tanned the thin body to a leathery brown. That had obviously faded, as apparently had the man’s desire for anything beyond that which he was commanded to do.

“I was here last month, General,” Anatoly Vishkov observed in a voice that was pathetic in its mild attempt at defiance. “A visit every three months was deemed sufficient when—”

“When we agreed to let you live, you miserable little insect!” Asunción brought a hand back to slap the insolent weakling, but the rumble of a distant explosion ended the action before it began. The general noticed the puzzlement on the Russian’s face. “The exercises are close today, it seems.”

Vishkov listened as another blast echoed across the water of the bay to his rear and reverberated through the man-made canyon of buildings and equipment in the complex. The valleys north of Cienfuegos did twist and distort sound quite frequently, a trait common to areas with similar geological and weather conditions. The physicist in him rationalized it as possible.

“If you work quickly, you can be finished by nightfall,” Asunción posited, opting for a different tack to gain compliance without questioning. It was preferable that the Russian be kept blissfully unaware of the troubles just twenty miles distant, lest he be motivated by some sense of humanity to refuse his assigned task. The general thought that quite unlikely, as the onetime honored guest of his nation had proven himself to be quite susceptible to the mere threat of physical violence. Still, to take a chance at this stage would be foolhardy.

“What more work can I do?”

“Make it ready,” Asunción directed.

The Russian hung his head as a tired man did, a smattering of tears already on his cheeks. “It is ready. It is always ready.”

“No, señor.” Asunción reached out and lifted the Russian’s head by his chin. “Ready to use.”

The look on Vishkov’s face changed from frustration to horror. “To use? You mean to…”

“Presidente Castro wishes a complete readiness test.” It was a lie, one without precedence but one the Russian had little reason to disbelieve.

Another roar rolled in from the water. Vishkov turned his head toward it, then back to his tormentor. What is happening?

“Señor…” The general stood aside and gestured grandly at the entrance as a hotel doorman would for a visitor.

The Russian physicist had no choice. Where once he had been a man respected for his ingenuity, he was now a prisoner of his value…and of his weakness. To stand up to his taskmasters would mean certain death, or, that which he feared more, a painful precursor to the release of the hereafter. Death, while not a welcome concept, was preferable to that which he could suffer, yet he was incapable of bringing that on to stave off the other. It was a circle of defeat few had mastered as well as the man who, in his brighter days, had mastered the atom and its destructive power. That mastery now remained as the sole bit of control that Anatoly Vishkov maintained over his existence.

And, in a twist of perception that he was incapable of realizing, it made him supremely powerful over a game he suspected he had just begun to play in the familiar role as pawn.