Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 27

Brendan hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. He crossed off the last line on his handwritten checklist.

He was free. Amy was out of his life.

It had taken him months, a lawyer he couldn’t afford, paid with money he didn’t have, to rid himself of that crazy bitch, but he’d done it. He’d gotten his identity back, shut down the false credit cards she’d opened in his name, and had his few remaining personal belongings shipped from San Diego back to Minneapolis, where they sat in his parents’ garage.

He closed his eyes. He was thirty-two years old, broke, and living in his parents’ basement. This was not how it was supposed to work out. He was a decorated Iraq war veteran — a Navy SEAL, for Christ’s sake — and he was living in his parents’ basement.

He could blame Amy, but deep down he knew he was just as much to blame. When he did something, he went all in. He’d been in love with Amy, so why not give her power of attorney over his affairs while he was overseas? Why not put her on the lease to his apartment and give her all the passwords to his financial accounts? Sure, they weren’t actually engaged, but he knew she loved him…

He looked down at the pages of scribbles and crossed out to-do lists on the yellow legal pad in his lap. That’s why, Brendan, you fucking idiot. You just spent the last three months unfucking your life because you didn’t think.

You blamed yourself when the Skype calls from Amy became more infrequent, and then stopped altogether. You ignored the emails from the bank and told yourself Amy would take care of it. You could have asked the CO’s wife to check up on Amy, maybe even stop her, but you didn’t want to cause any trouble. You were so sure you could work it out.

He threw the pad across the room, watching the pages flutter in a buzz of yellow. It slapped against the circa-1970s wood-paneled wall of the basement.

“Everything okay down there, Bren?” his mother called from the kitchen at the top of the stairs.

Brendan took a deep breath. “Fine, Mom.” He hoisted himself out of the chair. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Do you want some company, honey?”

“No, Mom, I’m fine.” He threw an old overcoat over his sweats and pulled a watch cap over his ears. He put some weight on his knee, flexing the joint. All in all, the knee had healed better than he’d expected. He had most of his previous range of motion, and maybe half the pre-injury strength. He could walk with only the slightest limp, and even run on it for a few hundred yards at a time.

He pushed open the sliding door on the walk-out basement and stepped out into the snow. It had been a brutal winter, the snowiest in something like 150 years. The path he’d shoveled from the back patio around to the front of the house was more like a tunnel, with three feet of packed snow on either side.

When he reached the driveway, his mother opened the front door. “Can Champ come with you?”

Brendan smiled. “Sure, send him out.” She opened the door wider to let the dog out. Champ, their ancient black Labrador retriever, huffed his way to Brendan, his leash folded in quarters and dangling from his mouth.

Brendan squatted to pet his friend, breathing through the pain of bending his knee. “Who’s walking who here, boy? Huh?” The leash trick was something Brendan had taught Champ in his younger days. He used to love to run around Lake Harriet with the dog, and the city had a leash law. Brendan thought letting Champ hold his own leash was pretty clever.

Their running days were over — for both man and dog. Today’s pace was a walk with occasional slow jogs, if they both felt up to it.

“Let’s go, boy,” he said, starting off.

It was one of those wonderful Minnesota winter days when the city experienced a midday “thaw.” While the nighttime temps stayed below zero, the days would warm up to high-thirties or so, enough for the running paths to stay clear of snow and ice. For the locals, used to near-zero conditions, the temporary reprieve from freezing — even for a few hours — inspired bursts of outdoor activity. Some brave souls even wore shorts when they ran around the lakes.

“What do you say, Champ, wanna scope some chicks around Lake Harriet?”

In their prime, the running loop around Lake Harriet had been a favorite haunt for both of them. Brendan, a senior in high school and already accepted to the Naval Academy, had become a workout fiend. He ran with his shirt off most of the time, with his faithful sidekick Champ, then just a year-old Lab. That was the year he’d taught Champ the leash trick. Brendan laughed out loud.

“Look at us now, buddy.” He reached down to scratch Champ’s ears. “Couple of broken-down old men, aren’t we?” Champ looked up at him and huffed noisily around the lead crammed in his jaws.

The sun was warm. By the time they reached the Harriet loop, Brendan had zipped open his overcoat. The sweat felt good, always a sure way to lift his spirits. It was lunchtime and the loop was crowded with runners. He watched one girl lope by in running tights that left nothing to the imagination, blond ponytail bouncing behind her. Brendan shook his head. In his younger days, he and Champ would have matched her stride for stride until she noticed his beautiful dog with the lead in his mouth and started a conversation.

Brendan tried to jog a few steps, but stopped when the pain spiked in his knee. His black mood closed in again. Those days were gone — long gone.

They neared the Lake Harriet Bandshell and Brendan got off the path. He guided Champ to the plaza behind the shell and found an open spot on the steps. Champ stretched out on the warm cement beside him. Although they looked out over the snow-covered lake, the sun was warm and the spot sheltered from the wind. Brendan took off his jacket and balled it behind his head as a pillow, letting the warmth of the sun seep into his body.

He needed to make some decisions soon. Rear Admiral Wizniewski had given him a staff job in DC for “as long as he wanted it,” but Brendan knew Wiz was just being kind. He was finished as an operational SEAL, and there was no way he’d be able to handle being a desk jockey in the SEAL community. His pride wouldn’t take it.

He could get out of the Navy, that was one option. There would even be some sort of disability for his knee injury. And do what? The only thing he’d ever wanted to do was be a SEAL, and now that was gone.

And then there was the mysterious Rick Baxter and his intel job. Brendan had to admit it: when Baxter read him into the program a few weeks ago, he was impressed. But was it really for him?

At Baxter’s invitation, he’d taken the DC metro out to Suitland, Maryland. The Office of Naval Intelligence building was part of the National Maritime Intelligence Center complex, just another of the myriad of alphabet-soup agencies that Brendan knew nothing about.

He processed through the security center and waited for Baxter to meet him. It was Brendan’s first time back in uniform since his hospital stay. He was out of shape, and his service dress blues felt tight in all the wrong places. The knee brace he wore allowed him to walk, albeit slowly, but at least he didn’t need crutches.

Baxter arrived in civilian clothes, but he wore the navy blue suit like a uniform, with a white shirt and a muted pattern tie with a perfect double Windsor knot. When he shook Brendan’s hand, Baxter’s brown eyes searched his face. “Good to see you, Brendan. How’s the knee?”

“Fine, sir.”

Baxter laughed, a deep belly laugh with lots of white teeth. “Alright, McHugh, let’s get this straight. Inside this program, I’m Rick and you’re Brendan. No ‘sirs’ allowed. Got it?”

Brendan smiled. “Sure, Rick.”

They took a long walk through a cubicle farm, passing through two security checkpoints along the way. Just when Brendan’s knee was hurting enough to ask for a break, they arrived at a conference room. Baxter gestured at a small refrigerator with a glass front, then busied himself with a laptop and projector. Brendan took a bottle of water from the fridge and sank into a chair, gritting his teeth as he bent his knee to a ninety-degree angle.

Baxter fired up the overhead projector. The image had the ONI seal and the title, Project Briefing: FEISTY MINNOW. Below that it said TOP SECRET, followed by a paragraph of legalese. Baxter cleared his throat.

“First things first,” he said, opening up a manila folder. He slid a single sheet of paper across the table. “Before I can brief you into the program, I need you to sign this. Read it first — I mean it, this is not your ordinary nondisclosure form.”

Brendan accepted the sheet and scanned it. Baxter was right, it was much more stringent than the typical NDAs Brendan was used to, but it basically came down to one thing: he could never, ever, under any circumstances, talk to anyone about the program. Ever.

His pen made a scratching sound in the quiet room as he signed the form. Baxter looked strangely relieved when Brendan passed the sheet back across the table.

Baxter stayed seated as he triggered the next slide. It was a world map with seven red dots sprinkled across it. Brendan scanned the locations: Eastern Med, Baltic Sea, Sea of Japan near North Korea, South China Sea, Caribbean, Indian Ocean, and the Med off North Africa.

“Intel is about collecting and analyzing information,” Baxter began. “These are all places where we’d like to have more information than we’re currently able to gather. SIGINT, ACINT, MASINT, IMINT — you name, we need it.”

Brendan held up his hand. “Come again, Rick? I’m not sure I’m following all your INTs. I know SIGINT is signals intelligence, comms and stuff like that, but what are the others?”

Baxter gave another deep laugh. “Sorry, we’re just like any other agency with our acronyms. ACINT is acoustics, and MASINT is measurement and signatures, which is a catchall term for everything else, like nuclear detectors—”

“It was you!” Brendan exclaimed. “The sensor we put on the North Korean TEL, when I got injured. You were on the other end of the line.”

Baxter gave him a look full of meaning. “That program is outside the scope of this briefing, Brendan, but that type of operation could fall under my purview.” He turned back toward the screen.

“Sorry,” Brendan replied, blushing. “It’s just that ever since we met, I felt like I knew you somehow.”

“Continuing,” Baxter said, without turning around. “These are all places where we would like to have more information to supply to our intelligence services, but lack ways to gather it. Naval ships and submarines are too obtrusive, and frankly most nations these days are just more aware of their EM footprint. The Chinese, for example, are pretty savvy. They simply shut down all comms when there is a US Navy ship within twenty miles of their coast.” He smiled as he flipped to the next slide. “What we need is a less obvious way to gather information.”

A picture of a sailing ship filled the screen. Brendan scanned the image. A forty-some-foot sloop, a real beauty, a more current model of the ones he’d sailed at the Academy.

“Operation Feisty Minnow will commission seven sailing vessels as clandestine intelligence-gathering platforms. The ships have been specially configured with the latest hardware, all of it hidden onboard. The crews are all trained intel officers, but they pose as rich people with money to burn and a passion for sailing.”

Brendan sat back in his chair. “So they sail along the coast of these countries and gather intel along the way?”

Baxter nodded. “They’re very careful to stay outside the twelve-mile boundary, in international waters, but yes, that’s pretty much the idea.”

“How does it work? For the crew, I mean.”

“Well, you get a new identity, a cover story with a bank account, and a platinum credit card that never runs out of money.”

Brendan whistled. “No expense reports? What’s the downside?”

Baxter frowned. “Brendan, this is serious. If you’re discovered, some of these countries won’t give a rat’s ass about international waters, and the chances of a Navy ship being able to intervene is nil. You’re on your own. Each ship in the Minnow fleet is equipped with an automatic scuttling system. If you’re taken by a foreign power, there are no extract options and the US will deny all knowledge of your existence.”

Brendan looked at the picture of the sailing ship for a long time. “And you want me to do what?”

“I want you to skipper one of these boats, probably the one in the IO. You’d have a crew of five, plus yourself, but four of them are likely going to be IT techs. They may know nothing about sailing. You and one other person are in charge of all sailing and navigation.”

“How long is the cruise?”

Baxter shook his head. “You’re not hearing me, Brendan. This is a command. Do you understand? You’d be the captain of a naval command. This will be your ship, your life, your responsibility, for the next three years.”

Brendan sat back in his chair, for once forgetting about the throbbing of his knee. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Baxter, but this was not it. A sailboat as an intelligence spy boat? His own command? What if he got captured? He’d be held as a spy. What did that even mean?

Baxter scratched at his jawline, his eyes scanning Brendan’s face. “Look, I’ve laid a lot of information on you today. Think about it. This is a commitment every bit as serious as Special Operations, maybe even more so. It’s not something to take lightly. You’re due back in DC on March first, right?”

Brendan nodded.

“Think about it and call me when you get back in town.”

The phone in Brendan’s pocket buzzed, interrupting his reverie. He flipped open the clamshell of the prepaid mobile phone and shielded it from the sunlight. Very few people had this number.

He recognized Marjorie’s home number.

“Marjorie?”

“Happy Valentine’s Day! How’s my favorite SEAL?”

Brendan gave a wry smile. “Still with a broken flipper. How’d you get this number?”

“Brendan, Don works for the CIA,” she said in a serious tone. “He can get me anything I want.” She paused. “Just kidding, I called your mother.”

Brendan laughed. “Well, it’s good to hear your voice anyway.”

“How are you doing, honey?” Marjorie’s tone took on a concerned note.

“I’m good, Marje. Really, I am.”

“You’re full of shit, Brendan. It’s the middle of the day and you answered the phone like I just woke you up.”

“Marjorie, I’m good.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “When are you back in DC?”

“A week from Monday. My convalescent leave ends March first.”

“Okay, I want you to come visit me when you get back. Come for dinner. I’ll invite Liz and Don, if they’re in town.”

“Sure,” Brendan said. He swallowed. “Is Liz still in DC?” He tried to keep his tone casual.

“Why don’t you call her and find out?”

Brendan started to answer, but Marjorie cut him off. “Brendan, call her. It’s Valentine’s Day, for Pete’s sake. Let her know you’re thinking about her.”

“Marje, she’s married—”

“Call her. Now. Promise me.”

Brendan took a deep breath. “Alright, I’ll call her.”

“Finally,” Marjorie said. “And dinner, too. Let me know when you get settled in DC.”

Brendan stared at the phone after the conversation ended. He punched in Liz’s number, his finger hovering over the SEND button. He’d been able to dial the number from memory, from all the times he’d gotten to this point. But so far, he still hadn’t worked up the courage to actually make the call.

He moved his finger to the DELETE button and watched the digits disappear one by one.

Brendan thumbed his way to the phone book. It contained only three numbers. He keyed down to the last name and hit SEND.

“Baxter.”

“Hi, Rick, it’s Brendan. I’m in.”