Rules of Betrayal

25

Sometimes you had to pull in a marker.

Frank Connor tossed the piece of metal in the air and caught it in his palm. For a moment he gazed at the chunk of misshapen lead. The odds were fifty-fifty, no better. Fourteen years was a long time, and memory warped the past. Too often, people remembered events as they wished they’d happened. Still, Malloy was an honorable man, as most Navy SEALs tended to be. If he said no, Connor wouldn’t blame him. After all, he was asking a lot.

Slipping the metal into his pocket, Connor turned up the collar of his coat against the rain and locked the door of his car. It was a secure government lot, but that didn’t mean it was safe.

The National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, or NGA, was situated on the grounds of Fort Belvoir in the rolling hills of northern Virginia, not far from Arlington National Cemetery. Its brief was simple enough: to provide imagery and map-based intelligence solutions to the U.S. defense establishment and private industry. The NGA was a jewel in the crown of the intelligence community, one of the sole agencies that produced an actual physical product that could be used to tangible effect by both public and private organizations, and as such, a moneymaker.

Connor entered the smoked-glass doors of the West Tower and presented himself to the security desk. “I’m here to see James Malloy. He’s expecting me.”

As he waited to be cleared, he looked around him. The complex consisted of three buildings. The West Tower and East Tower each stood six stories and were built like the two sides of a clamshell. In between them stood the Core, an eight-story glass cylinder that housed the NGA’s Source Directorate, where all mission-critical operations were conducted.

“Go ahead, sir. Mr. Malloy’s office is in the operations office on the sixth floor of the Core. Someone will be waiting for you on the landing.”

Connor slipped a visitor’s ID around his neck, passed through security inspection, and rode the elevator to the sixth floor. The doors opened and he stepped into the welcoming arms of six-foot-three-inch, 220-pound James Malloy. “Frankie, good to see you.”

Connor stood awkwardly, briefcase in one hand, as Malloy hugged him. “Likewise, Jim. How’s tricks?”

Malloy released him and ran a hand through his black hair. “Just made watch officer.”

“Watch officer? Nice. You must be putting in the hours.”

“Just doing the job,” said Malloy.

“How many years now?”

“Five. You were right about me being a good fit. I owe you.”

“Nonsense,” said Connor, but his hopes rose a notch.

His relationship with Malloy dated to the ’90s, when Malloy was an operator attached to SEAL Team Six working in Bosnia. During a hunter/killer mission targeting the rebel leader, Radovan Karadzic, Malloy and his team were caught in an ambush. Malloy alone survived and was taken captive. Connor heard the news and sent a Division asset to recover him. The affair got messy before it even began. There were gunfire and civilian casualties, along with a dozen or so Bosnian regulars killed. In the end, the asset’s cover was blown. It was a disaster all the way around, except that Malloy had escaped with his life.

Malloy set off down the hall at a demon’s pace, with Connor struggling to keep up. It was hard to believe the man had a prosthetic leg, but of course, that was the point. Unable to meet the SEALs’ rigorous fitness standards, Malloy had left the navy and moved to the civilian side of things. He’d worked for a few of the bigger private contractors before Connor arranged for him to come back to the government. It was time to see if his good deed would pay off.

“Take a seat,” said Malloy.

His office was an open desk on a raised platform in the middle of the operations center. From it, he surveyed an impressive array of computer monitors, video screens, and high-tech gadgetry running 360 degrees around him, allowing him to supervise all real-time collection of data carried out by satellites tasked to the NGA.

“I came to ask a favor,” said Connor as he pulled his chair closer.

Malloy smiled uneasily. “I figured as much. I heard about your promotion, too.”

Connor leaned closer and explained about the cruise missile that had been lost when an air force B-52 went down in the Hindu Kush in May 1984. “We believe that someone’s found it and may be trying to sell it on the black market to a rogue nation or fundamentalist cell.”

“How good is your intel?”

“Near-actionable. The problem is, I don’t know exactly where the bomber went down.”

“With all due respect,” said Malloy, “why am I hearing this from you? Seems to me that if we’re talking about a nuclear-tipped ALCM, I should be fielding calls from Langley, the Joint Chiefs, and maybe even the commander in chief himself.”

“There are other issues.”

“Such as?”

“The incident was hushed up by the air force. As far as they’re concerned, the missile is sitting at the bottom of a thousand-foot crevasse. It’s not something they’re eager to see dredged up. Anyway, I’m not quite there yet. For all I know, the whole thing could turn out to be a wild goose chase.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Connor shrugged. “I’m here.”

Malloy considered this. “What is it you need from me?”

Connor started him off easy so as not to scare him away. “Historical data. I need you to check and see if you have any imagery for the area dating from May 1984. I’m looking for evidence of a plane crash.”

“In those mountains? You’re talking about a couple of thousand square miles. That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. You’re going to have to give me something more specific.”

Connor removed a folder from his battered satchel. The topmost sheet held the final map grid coordinates to which the air force had narrowed its search.

“Better,” said Malloy. “So we’re talking a fifty-square-mile search grid right smack on the border of Afghanistan. As I recall, there was something big going down in that part of the world in ’eighty-four.”

“The Russian invasion was at its peak. The Red Army had a hundred and twenty thousand men stationed in the country. It was about then that the agency started supplying arms to the mujahideen. It pays to think we had at least one bird making a pass somewhere in the region every day.”

Malloy typed a stream of commands into his workstation. “No go,” he said, frowning.

“What’s the matter?”

“Too long ago. In terms of satellite imagery, 1984 was the dark ages. We were transitioning from wet film to digital technology. Up to ’eighty-three, our birds would take pictures on good old Kodak film. There was no such thing as real time. The best you could hope for was a three-day lag. More realistically, you’d get your pictures in a week or longer. The pictures aren’t here anymore.”

“But someone did keep them?” asked Connor, who knew a thing or two about bureaucratic incompetence.

“Absolutely, but not here. We need to hit the archives. Time to get off that fat butt of yours, Frank, and do a little PT.”

“Fantastic,” said Connor, groaning as he pushed himself out of the chair and lumbered after Malloy.

Their destination was a suite of offices on the fifth floor. “Back in ’eighty-four, this place went by the name of Comirex-the Committee on Imagery Requirements and Exploitation,” said Malloy as he powered up a workstation. “It was a black organization. Totally off the books. Since then we’ve changed names too many times to count. Now that we’ve got it down to three initials, everyone’s happy. NGA sits at the top table with the CIA, DHS, FBI, NSA, and all the other big shots.” He hit Enter and sat back. “Okay, here we are… Looks like we had four birds covering Afghanistan. Two were push brooms-they flew over the area with their apertures open wide and snapped pictures of everything. They won’t help. We need to drill down further. This is better. The other two were in geostationary orbit, maintaining a static post above their targets twenty-four-seven.” Malloy punched in some more commands. “Here we go. This bird was in your area. Looks like it was taking pics of a supply route over the mountains.”

The picture on the screen showed a section of earth from a high altitude. He saw a few black rectangles in one corner and lots and lots of mountains. Malloy refined the grid coordinates and the picture zoomed in on a section of mountainous terrain. “Bingo,” he said. “That’s where the flyboys were looking. No wonder they didn’t have any luck.”

“And that photograph is from May thirtieth or thirty-first?”

Malloy studied the screen, then scrunched up his nose. “Strange. I requested a pic from May thirtieth, but it shot back to the twenty-eighth. Let me try again.” Malloy repeated his commands and the same picture reappeared. He typed some more, then raised his hands over his head, blowing air through his teeth. “Every time I request a picture between May thirtieth and September thirtieth, it kicks me back to the twenty-eighth.”

“Of May? Is that normal?”

“Hell no, it’s not normal,” retorted Malloy. “If that satellite was up in the air, it should have been sending back pictures every minute of every goddamned day.”

“When do the pictures go current again?”

Malloy banged at the keyboard, his frustration mounting. “October first.”

“October first? That’s a long time for a satellite to be out of operation.” Connor studied the image. Approximately 120 days’ worth of photographic evidence was missing. He reasoned it was during that period that the air force had found the plane, or its debris, and destroyed it. “Snow,” he said. “The crash site is entirely covered. I guess that somebody wanted to make sure that no one found that plane.”

Malloy rolled back his chair. “Sorry, Frank. I can’t help.”

“Don’t be,” said Connor. “Now we know where to look. An area twenty square miles shouldn’t be beyond our capabilities.”

“But it’s November. There’s already a ton of snow up there. Even if the plane were still there, we wouldn’t be able to see it.”

“I don’t expect to find the plane or the missile. I’m looking for the people trying to recover it.”

Malloy turned to face him. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

“It will only take an hour’s time.”

“No, Frank. Absolutely not. I can’t task a bird to cover that area.”

“Actually, you can. You’re the watch officer. You’re the only person who can override any of the flight programs.”

“Every satellite has been tasked out months ahead of time. Every minute of every day for the next two years of their flight time has been reserved and accounted for. We have clients who depend on these images. You’re talking about compromising national security.”

“I’d say my actions fall into the opposite category-ensuring our national security. Look, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

“And what am I supposed to say to the boys at the CIA or CENTCOM or whoever I steal a bird from?”

“Say it broke down. It does happen.”

“All the time,” said Malloy. “And afterward, about a dozen pencil-pushers from Lockheed Martin and DOD descend on the place like a bunch of screaming blue meanies to find out why. Listen to me, Frank. Every keystroke on every workstation in this place is recorded. It will take exactly five minutes for them to discover that it was me who issued the override commands and interrupted a defined surveillance program. This isn’t taking your daddy’s Ford out for a joyride. You’re talking about hijacking a billion-dollar piece of equipment. Why don’t you get a Predator and fly it up there? Hell, that’d be easier than this.”

“I thought about it, but it wouldn’t go. Like you said. A needle in a haystack.”

“Goddamn it, Frank. This is a total nonstarter.”

Connor kept his voice low, his tone even. “You were a SEAL, Jim. You did what you did to save lives. I’m only asking you to do what you’ve already trained for. The only difference is that this time it’s without a gun.”

“You’re not just asking me to risk losing my job. We’re talking possible jail time.” Malloy logged off the computer and stood up. “Sorry, Frank-look around you. This is bigger than me.”

Connor sighed and lowered his head. He sat like that for a minute, monklike, disappointed, contemplative. And then he pulled the nub of misshapen lead from his pocket and tossed it to Malloy. “That’s the slug the doctors dug out of your back after my man rescued you.”

Malloy examined the metal. “No, Frank… sorry.”

“This isn’t about me or you or any debt between us,” Connor went on. “This is about what we swear to do every morning when we get out of bed. This is about protecting our nation. If there is a nuclear-tipped cruise missile somewhere in those mountains, I need to know about it. This is bigger than both of us. Bigger than this agency. It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever come up against.”

Malloy ran a hand over his mouth, all the while shaking his head. He muttered some choice words, and Connor knew what he was thinking. Why me, God? Finally he tossed back the old bullet and said, “Screw you, Frank.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Come back tonight. We have a bird due to make a pass at eleven. I can’t alter the satellite’s trajectory, but I can fiddle with the camera a little. You’ve got one chance-then we’re even.”

“Thank you, Jimmy. You’re a good soul.”

“Don’t give me that good-soul nonsense. I’m an American, whatever that means.”

Connor picked up his satchel and put a hand on Malloy’s shoulder. “God bless.”

Malloy shook his head. “And Frank,” he said. “Don’t ever ask me for a favor again.”