War of Eagles

TWENTY-THREE

Before today, Morgan Carrie had only been to Andrews Air Force Base once. That was two years ago, when she was part of a receiving line for a foreign ruler who was making her first trip to the White House. Carrie had been the token two-star at the time. It was not the kind of invitation an officer turned down; it was an order. But it felt dirty to be on display.

Things had changed since then. Carrie was in charge, and others were coming to see her.

The marines, for example.

Carrie did not meet them in the NCMC headquarters but in a ready room beside Hangar 5. It was not a short walk from Op-Center, so she took the golf cart. She would have preferred to walk, but the marines were on a schedule.

The idea of bringing marines into play was hers. It was enthusiastically endorsed by Joint Chiefs Chairman General Raleigh Carew. He said that one of the failures of Op-Center had been the difficulty Hood, Rodgers, and Herbert had in attracting human intelligence operatives in foreign lands. There were the historic problems: fear of repercussions among potential spies and difficulty trusting even those who agreed to help. The answer, Carew believed, was sending what the intelligence community called “passables,” outsiders who could blend in with the local population and were quick studies on customs, fads, and colloquialisms not covered in their training. They were designed to serve as both “spec-tar” units, staying long enough to hit specific targets and then leaving, or as sleeper cells. The military had been working on PITs — Passables Infiltration Teams — for several years. To date, small PITs had been fielded in Iraq and the Philippines under the auspices of G2. They were necessary because local recruits were too easily counterrecruited to spy on Americans. The idea for the PITs was inspired by the German action against Allied forces during the decisive Battle of the Bulge in World War II. Paratroopers dressed, equipped, and trained to speak like Americans were dropped behind Allied lines. Their mission was to destroy gas stores, slash truck tires, disable tanks, and send troops into ambushes; anything to slow the enemy advance while German forces attempted to retake the key port of Antwerp. Hitler also gambled that a long and bloody fight in the winter months would cause the weak alliance between American, British, and Russian soldiers to fray. That would give his newly supplied troops a chance to pick at one side while his diplomats stalled the other with insincere overtures of peace.

When Allied commanders became suspicious of the deception, sentries not only demanded passwords from soldiers but asked questions about baseball teams back home. Men who could not answer were arrested. Sufficient numbers of infiltrators were apprehended, and the push to crush Hitler was successful.

The general arrived at the hangar. The mission coordinator, Captain Tony Tallarico, saluted and showed her into the ready room. The four marines were dressed in civvies and sitting on folding chairs in the center of the small room. Beside them were nondescript backpacks. The three men and one woman had been driven over from Quantico, where they had trained. After Carrie had spoken with them, they would be taken to Dulles for an All Nippon Airways flight to Tokyo. There they would transfer to Air China for the trip to Beijing.

The marines got to their feet and saluted when the general entered. Carrie returned the salute and told them to sit back down. They were all in their early twenties but had eyes that were much, much older.

The general dismissed Tallarico. Soldiers had a formal, somewhat rote way of addressing familiar officers. She wanted to see them fresh, the way the Chinese would see them. Before coming over, she had only had a few minutes to glance at their records, both their real dossiers and the identities G2 had given them. In everyday Chinese life the marines would be posing as two history students, a bicycle repairman, and an electronics technician. She wanted to make sure she could picture them that way before sending them undercover.

“As of this morning you have all been seconded to the National Crisis Management Center,” the general said as she looked from one eager face to the other. “We are the people who stop wars so that people like us don’t get killed. The two of you posing as students — you understand what that job may entail?”

“Yes, sir,” the two replied as one.

She looked at one of them, the woman. “Second Lieutenant Yam,” she said to the woman. “A student confides that he or she is publishing an anti-Communist newspaper. What do you do?”

“I collect as many names as possible, sir, and file them with the NCMC.”

“What if we decide you need to ingratiate yourself with local party functionaries?” the general asked.

“I will provide those names to said functionaries, sir.”

“Even if it means a lengthy period of jail time for people whose politics you support?”

“Regrettably yes, sir.”

General Carrie nodded. “This is not always pleasant work, and it is rarely fair. It is a battle in which innocent lives are regularly lost. The rewards are often very difficult to see. They cannot be measured in terrain won or in an enemy’s quick surrender. This war requires ruthless patience. If you don’t have that, if the life of someone’s son or daughter will cause you to hesitate, I want you to speak now. I will replace you without prejudice. I would rather have to change a tire than drive on three.”

No one spoke.

“Very well then,” she said. “Does anyone have any questions, any last-minute requests or ideas?”

“No, sir,” they all replied.

Their voices were loud and proud, as she expected. These four had been very carefully selected and trained for the maximum-one-year mission. She was lucky to get them. Four others were being trained to back them up. If they were compromised and had to leave China suddenly, the others would be ready to go immediately.

“Just a few spot checks for my own peace of mind,” the general said. “You’ve all got your cover stories as well as the scientific credentials lined up to get into the launch site if that should be necessary?”

“The papers and passes have already been delivered to the embassy,” said one of the men. “One of the female diplomats will make the delivery tomorrow at noon at a popular dumpling stall. She will make a pass at me, and we’ll do the switch.”

“Tough job,” the general said.

“Well, sir, she is considerably older—”

General Carrie’s expression registered quick displeasure. Only then did the marine realize what he had done.

“Sir, I mean—”

“Exactly what you said,” the general replied. “Some older women could teach you a great deal, Lieutenant Lee.”

“Yes, sir, General, sir.”

“You are my contact, Lieutenant Kent Lee?” Carrie went on.

“Yes, sir.” Lee had recovered his go-get-’em demeanor immediately.

“The electrician.”

“Correct, General,” Lee replied. “I hope to get a position fixing cell phones and computers.”

“To facilitate recon,” the general said.

“That is the plan, sir. And also repairs to our gear, if necessary.”

The team would be communicating by text-messaging. Lee would collect and summarize reports in regular E-mails to the general. The messages would be routed through the computer at the home of Lee’s “sister” in a New York apartment. The space was actually a CIA surveillance site near the United Nations. If Lee’s computer were ever stolen or the account hacked, a pogo-mail address for one Andrea Lee is all the thief would find. Nor would there be anything suspicious about the contents of the E-mails to or from Ms. Lee. The computer would be employing a HIPS program to encode the messages. The hide-in-plain-sight encryptions took all the words of the message and earmarked them, then dropped them into longer messages. The longer message was deleted at the other end. Anyone reading them would see nothing unusual, nor were there any patterns to look for.

“You have all got your exit strategies if that becomes necessary?” the general asked. She knew the details from her years at G2 when the routes and plans were established.

“We fall back to the embassy or to the safe house behind the North Train Station near the Beijing zoo,” said Lee.

“Apartment?” she asked the woman.

“Basement, sir,” the marine replied. “Seven steps down, door to the right, three knocks, then two knocks.”

“And you’ve all studied the space center if you’re asked to go there?” the general asked. Carrie had looked at the map before leaving the office. A key to maintaining morale among subordinates was for a superior to know as much as possible about a mission. It made operatives feel as though there was a vetting process, a careful and knowledgeable eye watching over them.

“We’ve gone through it in virtual sims, General,” Lee said. “We know that place better than we know our own barracks.”

“Where is the launch center relative to the technical center?” the general asked, pointing to the shortest man in the group.

“North, sir. Three point four kilometers,” he added.

“And the tracking station relative to the tech center?” she asked the only marine who had not spoken.

“Four kilometers to the southeast, sir,” he told her.

She looked at Second Lieutenant Yam. It was odd. The general did not see herself as a new recruit. This woman projected a fearlessness that Carrie had not possessed. Maybe the new generation of women was openly competing with men, not bracing themselves for impact with the glass ceiling.

“Latitude of the launch tower?” she asked Yam. She had saved the toughest question for the young woman. Despite what Yam might think, the playing field was not a level one.

“It is twenty-eight degrees fifteen minutes north, sir,” the second lieutenant replied.

“Elevation?”

“Eighteen hundred feet, sir,” Yam replied.

General Carrie smiled and nodded. That felt good.

There was no time to chat further, nor any need. Carrie had seen all she needed to see. They were four sharp, enthusiastic marines. A little young, but that was all right. Youth had energy and clarity uncorrupted by cynicism. They would need that as reality started peeling away the layers of idealism.

Wishing them well and saluting them proudly, the general brought Captain Tallarico back into the room. She congratulated him for his work, then returned to her golf cart.

As she headed back to the NCMC, General Carrie was confident in the group but a little uneasy about their inexperience. There was no way to get it, other than by being in the field. But she was suddenly much more aware of the fragility of the four tires than she had been driving over.