Target Omega

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Arlo guided James Brandt through the halls of the White House, Secret Service agents parting to permit them to pass.

Brandt had just come from a short briefing for Vice President David Wilson, who was stepping in for the president while the latter was convalescing in Walter Reed. Wilson had quizzed Brandt on his take on the imminent UN resolution sponsored by the Russians and Iranians but seemed only mildly interested in what Brandt had to say. It was almost as if Wilson was just going through the motions, which past occupants of the office have, in colorful fashion, described as the primary function of the position.

Olivia Perry was waiting in Brandt’s office when he arrived. “Good morning, Olivia. Your meeting with Mr. Dwyer was productive?”

After patting Arlo on the head and taking a seat in one of two chairs in front of Brandt’s desk, Olivia wasted no time with pleasantries. “Michael Garin is being set up by the Iranians to take the fall for the assassination of his team. The most rational motivation for the Iranians to do so is to facilitate their intended use of WMD against Israel.”

Olivia’s lack of equivocation drew a loud chuckle from Brandt. “Whoa, whoa, slow down there. No other possibilities, Olivia? None at all?”

“There are always possibilities. But my conclusion is the most logical probability,” Olivia asserted.

Brandt chuckled again as he scratched Arlo behind the ears. His aide had rarely suffered from self-doubt or second-guessing when it came to her work, the product of usually being right. “Tell me how you came to that conclusion.”

Olivia related her conversation with Dwyer in exacting detail: Garin’s peculiar disappearance from BUD/S and SQT; the Garin apparitions in various operational theaters; his Russian heritage; the Omega team; his probable operations in Iran; the Iranian assassins; and the possible involvement of Delta Force. Olivia became most animated while describing the rescue of Dwyer’s SEAL team in Kunar Province.

The national security advisor listened intently, his sightless blue eyes directed toward Olivia’s face. Arlo lay on the floor throughout, making groaning noises, as if bored.

When Olivia was finished, Brandt sat pensively for several seconds, mental wheels in motion. When he spoke, it was in a sedate, almost grave tone.

“Well, I’ve learned one very important thing beyond all doubt.”

“What’s that, Professor?”

“That Ms. Olivia Perry — the woman who, despite her intimidating intellect and looks, was by far the shyest woman on campus — has a crush on the rough-and-tough Mr. Michael Garin, gentleman, scholar, and American action hero.” Brandt paused dramatically. “Finally.”

Brandt burst into laughter, causing Arlo to sit up alertly and place a paw on his master’s lap. Although he couldn’t see it, Brandt correctly sensed Olivia’s discomfort, causing him to laugh harder and, in turn, Arlo to bark excitedly. Brandt’s secretary appeared at the door to investigate the commotion. A flustered Olivia waved her away.

“I’m sorry,” Brandt said as he gasped for air. “It’s just that your tone was so earnest. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you so impassioned, Ms. Perry.”

“I’m simply reporting what I believe to be the relevant facts.” The indignation in Olivia’s voice was unmistakable.

“All right, okay,” Brandt said, catching his breath. “Just having a little fun at my protégé’s expense. In truth, what you’ve told me may be useful.”

Olivia watched as Brandt’s demeanor quickly became more serious. She’d seen the transformation many times before. Brandt, having processed disparate bits of data, was about to make an analytical leap, arriving at a destination others would find only in hindsight.

“I gather you don’t think my conclusions are sound.”

“No, no,” Brandt assured her. “They are. I think that Mr. Garin is being set up by the Iranians to cover, or distract from, their intended use of WMD. Also, I do think that we may be looking at an attempt to obliterate Israel during the conflict. I doubt, however, that the Iranians have the assets or capability to pull off the elimination of Garin’s entire unit on American soil. Too sophisticated. The Russians might be a different story. Given their cooperation with the Iranians on the UN resolution, we have to assume the Russians are, indeed, involved. But to what end? What do they hope to gain from the Iranians’ strike against Israel? What’s their next move? And how do we stop it?”

“In the long term, perhaps very long term, Russia would benefit from chaos in the Middle East. Oil and gas prices rise, benefiting the Russian treasury and consolidating its power over not just the former Soviet republics, but Eastern Europe and anyone else dependent on Russia for energy,” Olivia said. As soon as she did, she noticed the buzzing was back. Warehouses, fuel depots, oil tankers.

“That’s correct,” Brandt said as if he were responding to a student in class. Olivia sensed that Brandt’s mind was on something more. Two chess moves ahead.

“Professor, we need to talk to Garin.”

“Obviously, yes. The president needs to be advised on the next move once the UN resolution passes. And it most certainly will. We’re making critical policy in a dangerous informational vacuum. The secretary of state says one thing, Defense tells him another. And I prefer that his options aren’t reduced to only military ones. But for that we need information. Something we can confront the Russians with and deter them. Mr. Garin may be able to supply that intel, whether he knows it or not. I’m afraid, however, that things are moving rather quickly, Olivia. So please impress upon Mr. Dwyer the urgency of our request. We don’t have much time. The Congress and leadership are saying ten things at once. We must give the president clear, concrete counsel. We have little, if any, room for error.”

In her mind, Olivia kept turning over images of Soviet-era industrial equipment sitting unused in various locations throughout Russia. Unused and, by all indications, not even being moved to market. At a time when the Russian economy needed a large infusion of revenue.

This, Olivia thought, was economic idiocy reminiscent of the old five-year plans. Worse, given today’s just-in-time market dynamics.

Olivia rose from behind the desk in her tiny office in the Old Executive Office Building and went for a contemplative stroll, the staccato click of her heels echoing through the long corridors of the massive edifice. She worked out problems better while walking.

Russian president Mikhailov and the oligarchs were getting quite good at capitalism — especially the more rapacious strain. They were too shrewd to devote precious resources and industrial capacity during an economic downturn to producing commodities no one bought. Olivia shared her boss’s suspicion of all things Kremlin. When in doubt, presume they’re up to no good.

She stopped in midstride. She should’ve been working on matters related to the UN resolution, but it struck her that the idle Russian equipment might have some indefinable bearing on what was going on in the Middle East. And in order to make that determination, she needed more information. She knew just where to get it.

Olivia returned to her office and called her friend Laura Casini, a former Stanford classmate, now an analyst at the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. Laura picked up on the first ring.

“Casini.”

“Need another favor, Laura.”

“I am not double-dating with you again just so you’ll have another first-date buffer.”

Olivia laughed. “C’mon, you had fun and you know it. Did what’s-his-name call you back?”

“I’m pretty sure mastering the complexities of telephone technology presents an insuperable challenge to what’s-his-name.”

“Laura, you and I both know you’re way past the point where brains are a prerequisite. Just about any testosterone-based life-form should do.”

“You should talk. The only time you ever see men without their pants on is at the gym. And I bet your legs have better muscle tone than theirs. Anyway, what do you need?” Casini asked.

“Satellite images for the last six months of the industrial sectors of Murmansk, Vladivostok, Arkhangelsk, and the Volga from the Caspian to thirty miles upriver, to start.”

“To start? That’s an indigestible amount of data, Olivia. Not to mention a very big ask.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a matter of national security.”

“Yeah, well, you need a new line. You’ve only been in office a few months and it’s already old.”

“Can you send it to me at OEOB?”

“Nope. You’re going to have to come here. Besides, if you want the kind of resolution needed to make sense of the images, you really need our equipment.”

“I’m e-mailing the coordinates as we speak. I don’t need all six months. Just pull, say, January 14, April 14, and July 14.”

“Okay,” Casini replied.

“When can I see them?”

“When can you get here?”

“I’ll be there within the hour.”

Olivia stood behind Laura Casini as she typed on a keyboard. A grainy image of what appeared to be some kind of industrial plant situated on a riverbank materialized on the seventy-two-inch monitor before them.

“I have no idea what that’s supposed to be,” Olivia said.

“Neither do I,” Casini agreed. “But watch this.”

Casini played with several more keys and manipulated the mouse, and the screen projected a vivid image of an industrial park on the northeast outskirts of Murmansk, Russia.

“Holy cow,” Olivia said.

“Only nerdy Midwestern girls say ‘holy cow,’” Casini said as she resumed typing.

“Guilty.”

“If you think that’s impressive, watch this.”

Casini moved the mouse and clicked an icon in the upper left quadrant of the screen. The resolution became even clearer, as if Olivia were standing on the roof of one of the warehouses in the photo. She could see the watermarks on the tar paper covering the roof of the warehouses to the left and the blades of the exhaust fans on the roof of the factory to the right. But Casini wasn’t finished.

“You didn’t hear it from me, but these images are courtesy of the next-generation KeyHole spy satellites that the administration says we never built. The KH-13. As you can see, unparalleled resolution. Now watch this.”

Casini clicked another icon, magnifying the shot so that Olivia could see startlingly clear images of the cigarette butts strewn about the warehouse roof.

“New magnification software,” Casini informed her, smiling. “Radical stuff.”

“What do you make of those?” Olivia asked, pointing to rows of objects in the yard next to the warehouse.

“Standby or backup generators. Commercial grade. Three-phase, probably thirty kilowatts.”

“I count rows of ten by twenty on the ground pallets and an equal number on the flatbed truck pallets. Four hundred generators. Is this the January 14 shot?”

“It is,” Casini replied.

“Go to April 14, please, Laura.”

Another photo of the warehouse appeared.

“Okay. There are a lot more flatbeds than before and…” Olivia paused to count. “Rows of twenty by twenty. I’d say there are twice as many generators than in January. Can we go forward to a couple days ago?”

A few seconds later, an image showed rows of generators filling the entire yard, with a caravan of flatbeds streaming down the adjacent road.

“Looks like production — and shipment — has increased dramatically over the last six months,” Olivia said. “Now, can you show me the industrial sector of Vladivostok, same time progression?”

Seconds later, the screen displayed a view of a mammoth industrial park. Casini dialed down to a series of structures flanking a rail yard, then applied the magnification software.

“Heavy electrical cable. Spools and spools of it,” Olivia whispered to herself as she inspected the image. “Go to April, then July.”

Casini did so. There was more cable in April than in January, and still more in July, Towmotors loading them onto a nearby freight train.

“Now Arkhangelsk, please.”

Seconds later, a January shot of an industrial area located near the port city appeared. Casini scanned for data points similar to the images of Murmansk and Vladivostok and then magnified and sharpened the resolution.

“Don’t know what that is, but it looks like some kind of electrical equipment,” Olivia said. “April, please.”

April appeared on the screen. “More of whatever it is,” she said. “July, please.”

July came on the screen. “Tons of it, now on forklifts being loaded onto trucks.”

“Have any idea what this means?” Casini asked.

Olivia shook her head. The buzzing was getting louder. “Not yet,” she replied, only half-truthfully. “But it can’t be good.”