Текст книги "Raven Strike"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter 4

Washington, D.C.

President Todd stared at the worn surface on her desk, her eyes absorbing the varied scars and lines. The desk was her own personal piece of furniture, one of the few pieces she brought to the White House. She’d always found a certain mental comfort in familiar physical objects; the small, solid desk reminded her of her many past struggles, not only hers but those of her father and grandfather, both of whom had been small town doctors in what seemed a different America now. Many a patient’s life was saved at this desk, she believed; if wood could be said to have a soul, this one’s must surely be a powerful force for good.

She needed some of its strength now. The day’s developments had not been good.

There was a knock on the door to her small office.

“Come,” she said.

David Greenwich, her chief of staff, poked his head in.

“Mr. Reid and Ms. Stockard have arrived, ma’am,” he said. “Everyone else is in the cabinet room, waiting for you.”

“Very good, David.”

“You have that dinner with Kurgan and some of the New York crew this evening.”

“I won’t forget.”

“We could cancel.”

“Oh, stop, David,” she said, rising. “You’re mothering me.”

“Just looking out for you. I know how much you’re going to enjoy that one,” he added sarcastically.

“I assure you I’m fine. And tell my husband that as well.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“I’ll bet.”

Todd smiled to herself as she left the office. All of these men, fussing over her—it could easily go to her head if she let it.

Then again, reality was always waiting to give her a good kick in the gut if she got too full of herself.

It was giving her a double job today.

Breanna took a seat at the long table, making sure she was between Edmund and Reid. Edmund had brought Reginald Harker with him, along with another man, Gar Pilpon. Pilpon, about forty, had extremely white hair and a set of thick, trifocal glasses that made his eyes look almost psychedelic. His pupils were red, or at least appeared to be red in the light of the cabinet room where they were meeting.

President Todd’s National Security Advisor, Dr. Michael Blitz, sat at the other end of the table opposite Edmund. Next to him was the President’s political advisor, William Bozzone. If the request to brief her in person hadn’t been unusual enough, Bozzone’s presence signaled that what seemed a routine matter a few days before had blossomed into a full-blown crisis.

“Very good of you all to come on short notice,” said the President as she entered. “Don’t get up gentlemen. Breanna, I’m glad you could make it. How’s your daughter?”

“Very good, Ms. President.”

Todd’s smile disappeared as she sat down. That was her style: right to business.

“So, as I understand it, we have everything but the computer that runs the aircraft,” she said, looking around the table. “Am I correct?”

“That is right,” said Breanna.

“And we know where it is?” Todd turned to Edmund.

“My person on the scene is continuing to search.”

“I was under the impression that Whiplash had been called in to supervise the recovery,” said Todd sharply. Clearly, she was not happy with him or his Agency. She turned back to Breanna. “Am I right?”

“Yes. We recovered the aircraft in a building that was being used by the target of the assassination program. We subsequently found his body on the other side of the city. He apparently was killed by a member of the Muslim separatist group he was helping. We think the killer took the control unit. That’s one of our theories, at least.”

“How many theories do you have?” asked Blitz. “Jonathon?”

“We are pursuing several,” said Reid dryly. They had agreed he would speak sparingly.

“How long before we recover the rest of the aircraft?”

“I can’t give an estimate,” said Breanna.

“Do they know what they have?” Blitz asked.

Edmund answered before Breanna could.

“The Raven control unit looks exactly like other UAV control units,” he said. “It would be impossible for them to know.”

“It actually looks quite different,” said Reid sharply. “And of course, the programming inside it is very different.”

Breanna gave him a slight tap with her foot under the table. He was doing exactly what he had sworn he wouldn’t do.

“These Africans are primitive,” said Harker. “That’s one of the reasons the region was chosen in the first place. They have no idea.”

“If they have no idea,” said Todd, “then why did they take the control unit?”

“American technology can always be sold. They’d sell a toaster if we dropped one there.”

“We have to assume that they can figure it out,” said Blitz. “Eventually. We need to get the unit back.”

“I agree with that,” said Edmund.

The President turned toward Breanna and Reid. “You’re confident that you can get it?”

“We’re reasonably sure,” said Breanna. “But it would be foolish to make guarantees. We don’t even have all the technical data on the flight computer. We’ve made our own assessments based on what its capacity is supposed to be, but quite honestly, the amount of information—”

“I’m sorry, I’m not following this,” said Bozzone, speaking for the first time. “Are you saying you don’t know what you’re looking for?”

“We haven’t been given a picture of it, let alone the technical details,” said Breanna.

“We didn’t see that as operationally necessary,” said Edmund. The tone of his voice made it clear he would have thrown a brick at Breanna if he had one.

“This doesn’t sound like a lot of cooperation,” said Bozzone. “At a time when everyone in the administration should be working together. How do you expect them to do their job if you’re not helping them?”

“There’s a certain amount of need to know—”

“Let’s cut to the quick here,” said the President. “Herman, you will cooperate. You will give Ms. Stockard and Mr. Reid whatever information they require. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Now—this computer. How dangerous exactly is it?” asked the President.

“It has—unique capacities,” said Edmund.

“It’s essentially a virus that, once programmed to kill someone, will not stop trying to do just that,” said Reid. Breanna didn’t bother kicking him—she would have said the same thing. Edmund was being almost criminally evasive. “It’s very dangerous. If it’s released into the wild, so to speak—”

“Well, um, characterizing it as an, um, virus, that is not highly accurate,” said Pilpon. “It is, um, simply a set of instructions, carefully controlled. It has been hobbled—”

“But isn’t it true that the basic program is designed to adapt to its environment?” asked Reid.

“Yes.”

“Which means the program can go into any computer it’s hooked into—and by computer, I mean processing chip.”

“Well, not um, exactly. It couldn’t go into the chip in your car, for example. There are a large number—”

“If I had access to it, I could certainly figure out how to get it into another computer, couldn’t I?” asked Reid.

“I don’t know about that. The circumstances would be difficult.”

“Do the Africans who took the computer know this or not?” asked the President.

“We don’t believe so,” said Edmund.

“If they have it, it’s just a bunch of circuits to them,” insisted Harker. “It’s a toaster.”

The President frowned. “Mr. Edmund, I understand Congress wants to talk to you about Raven.”

“The Intelligence Committee has requested a briefing,” said Edmund.

Breanna expected a long discussion to follow. Instead, the President rose.

“You will not speak to them until we have recovered this unit,” she told him sternly. “Is that clear?”

“Very.”

“William, work out the details. Executive privilege, whatever road we have to take. Stall, then bring out the heavy guns. Breanna, Jonathon, please bring this to a successful conclusion quickly. Get it back. I’m sorry, I have to leave, I have other commitments. Thank you all for your time.”

Chapter 5

Duka

They were in the slog part of the mission—past the high excitement of combat, with a lot of work to be done, yet without the adrenaline.

A potentially dangerous time, when fatigue and boredom conspired to make even the most dedicated soldier cut corners.

Danny switched around the assignments to make sure the people searching the buildings had not been involved in the first searches. He personally checked on the different teams, riding back and forth in one of the captured pickups with Melissa. The city had fallen into a stupor, dead and wounded lying near sleeping, exhausted fighters.

“We should do something about that,” said Melissa after they passed a pair of rebels lying by the road. MY-PID, analyzing their body heat, reported that they were dead.

“Like what?” said Danny.

“Bury them, at least. I don’t know.” She shifted uncomfortably in the pickup. The seat belts had been cut away; neither could belt themselves in against the pothole-induced bumps and lurches. “I feel like we should do more.”

She was quiet for a while, then, without prompting, volunteered that she had been scared.

“It wasn’t the shooting,” she said. “It was the baby. I—I didn’t know what to do.”

“Bloom was there.”

“She was. She was panicking about everything except the baby. For me it was the other way around.”

“Everybody has a breaking point,” said Danny.

“I didn’t break. I might have. I could see it.”

“True,” said Danny.

“I didn’t think about them as people when I got here. But now, I see them and I think, oh my God . . .”

Melissa trailed off, silent. Danny wanted to say something but wasn’t exactly sure what.

“Maybe you realized why we fight,” he said finally, still unsure that he had the right words.

They continued in silence toward the warehouse they had hit the first night. Hera and one of the new Whiplash troopers, Shorty, were standing outside, waiting. They’d just finished searching it, with no sign of any of the missing UAV components. Hera and Shorty had also checked on two small buildings nearby, both deserted. Neither appeared to have been even entered by anyone for months if not years.

“Sorry,” Hera told him. She and Shorty got in the back.

“I shouldn’t have let the Osprey get hit,” Danny told Melissa as they drove back toward their camp.

“How is that your fault?”

“I could have kept it back.”

“Would it have been as effective?”

It was a good and obvious question, and one he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. There was always a balance between taking action and being safe.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I guess I feel I should have told them to be more careful.”

“If someone told you that, would it have made any difference?”

“Probably not,” conceded Danny.

“I don’t see how you’re supposed to be perfect—doesn’t every plan get changed once the battle starts, or something like that?”

“Something like that.” Danny smiled. It was odd how suddenly he felt so comfortable talking to her.

Chapter 6

CIA Headquarters Campus

Jonathon Reid was about to open his car door in the Langley parking lot when a black government limo pulled up behind him. Reid knew exactly who it was, and could have guessed more or less accurately what was going to be said. He wanted to be anywhere but here, but there was no way to escape. He sighed to himself, then turned to face Herman Edmund as the rear window rolled down.

“Jonathon, come in here a moment, would you?” said Edmund.

“I’m actually late for an appointment,” said Reid.

“It’ll keep.”

Reluctantly, Reid walked over to the far side of the car and got in the back, next to the CIA director. There was a partition between the driver and the backseat; it was closed.

“Why are you doing this?” demanded Edmund. “I thought we were friends.”

“This isn’t personal,” said Reid. “There’s nothing personal involved.”

“You were trying to make me look bad with the President.”

“Herm, that’s not true. I barely spoke.”

“Your tone was atrocious. Raven is an important project,” continued Edmund. “It was started two directors ago. It wasn’t my idea.”

“I’m sure it’s important.”

“So why are you sabotaging it? What if I were I to do the same with Whiplash?”

“I don’t see that as a parallel situation in any way,” said Reid.

“No, of course you wouldn’t.”

“You do oversee Whiplash, the Agency component at least.”

“Oh come on, Jon. Everyone knows it’s your baby. You got it assembled, you got the funding, you convinced Magnus and the others in DoD to go along. It’s your baby. If anyone were to look at it cross-eyed, you’d scream.”

“The way Raven was deployed was not characteristic of your best decisions,” said Reid. He consciously picked his words, making the stiffest choices. Distance would be useful. This wasn’t a personal matter, and Edmund shouldn’t see it that way.

“Deploying the weapon without extensive testing and safeguards was ill-advised,” Reid continued. “You were almost guaranteed that something would go wrong.”

“You have no idea of the safeguards we employed,” said Edmund. “Or how much testing it’s undergone. Sooner or later it has to be used. That’s the real test. This—This was just a bizarre set of circumstances. The Predator caused the accident. It was part of the safeguards and it bit us in the butt—if we hadn’t had it with the flight, we wouldn’t be here talking.”

“It’s a powerful weapon,” said Reid.

“So powerful it should be under your control. Is that it?”

“Not necessarily, no.”

“But if it were a Whiplash project, that would be all right. If your private army had it, then nothing could ever go wrong.”

“Whiplash is just our—is just the action arm of the Joint Technology Task Force, of Room 4,” said Reid. “Nothing more.”

“No, ‘our’ is the key word there.” Edmund had a smug expression on his face, strangely triumphant, as if Reid had proven his point. “I want you to think of what you’re doing to the Agency here, Jonathon. I know you’re jealous of me. But think of the Agency. The institution. Our oaths. Our history. You’re going to drag the Agency through the mud. Again. You. Both of us swore we would never let that happen. I’m just surprised that you went back on that. I expected a lot more from you.”

“I’m not involved in the politics at all.”

“Oh come on. You didn’t tell Ernst?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I know you’re the one who went to the President, Jonathon. What did you do? Use Breanna Stockard? Did she tell her husband? Was he the one who tipped off Ernst? I know he has his own agendas. I don’t buy all that hero crap.”

“Breanna did not tell either her husband, or Ernst. I have no idea who tipped off the senator. Most likely it was someone on your staff.”

“Now you’re getting ridiculous.” Edmund’s face reddened. “Get out, Jonathon. We’re done.”

“Herm—”

“Out of my car. I can’t fire you, obviously, but I can tell you that our friendship is done. I’ve been too trusting of people. Ironic for a spy, isn’t it?”

Chapter 7

John F. Kennedy International Airport

New York City

Amara walked into the dimly lit hall trying to get his bearings after the long airplane flight. He’d been to America before, but that experience didn’t help him now. He knew he had nothing to fear—and yet he had everything to fear. The customs agent sat in a small booth similar to a toll collector’s. The man frowned as Amara handed over his passport.

“Why are you here?” the agent demanded.

“Vay-Vacation.”

“What’s a vay-vacation?”

The agent’s hostility made it easier somehow.

“I am here to visit my aunt and uncle,” said Amara. “I have their address.”

The official frowned and began examining his passport. “You’ve been in America before.”

“Yes, sir. I have been to school here.”

“You are thinking of getting a job.”

“It’s very difficult to get a job,” said Amara. This was his first answer that hadn’t been rehearsed. But it didn’t need to be. “I am helping my country build itself. There is much to be done.”

“That makes sense.” No longer interested in him, the agent flipped the passport pages back and forth, then stamped his book. “Be careful,” he said as he handed it back.

Be careful of what? Amara thought, shouldering his backpack out to the luggage claim area.

A half-dozen men in dark suits were standing near the doors, holding cards with handwritten names. He glanced at them. The terminal building felt a little unbalanced, as if the floor were tilted. He went to the carousel, watching the luggage move around. Three-fourths of the bags were black, and at least half of those looked like his. Amara eyed them nervously, twice examining a suitcase before realizing it wasn’t his.

Finally, with the crowd around him thinning, he found his bag. He pulled it off the belt and turned to leave.

“Amara, my cousin,” said a man on his right. “We are glad you are here.”

His voice was extremely soft—so low, in fact, that Amara nearly didn’t hear him. The tone belied the words: rather than being a warm greeting, it sounded cold and impersonal.

Which, of course, it was.

“My uncle,” said Amara, trying not to let the words sound like a question.

“This way. We’ll take a cab,” said the man, who had tan skin, but lighter than his. If he’d had to guess, he would have said he was Egyptian or Palestinian. He took Amara’s bag and led him to the large doors at the front of the terminal. “Is your backpack heavy?”

“I have it.”

Amara remained on his guard as he was led to a cab parked at the curb.

He knew little of the project, beyond the fact that the Brothers were cooperating with others, presumably in exchange for money.

Amara wasn’t sure if the taxi driver, who looked Palestinian, was part of the network. He knew better than to say anything that would give himself away. And as his guide was silent, he thought it best for him to remain so as well.

The city sprawled on both sides of them as they drove toward Manhattan. The rows of houses seemed endless. Tall buildings rose in the distance. It had been nearly three years since he’d been in New York. The city had seemed like a vast temptation, a fascinating place filled with many sweets, a decadent paradise. Or hell, depending on one’s point of view.

“First time in New York?” asked his “uncle.”

It was a dumb question, thought Amara—his “uncle” should know the answer.

“I have been here before,” he said.

“A grand city for a young man like yourself.”

Amara turned to the window, staring at the old bridge they were crossing. When he first came to New York, he was surprised to find so many old things: he’d assumed the name was literal. And there was a great deal of dirt and grime, so much so that it reminded him of Cairo. But a few days in Manhattan and he stopped noticing such things.

They drove through the heart of the city, weaving through thick morning traffic. Finally, they pulled up to a curb.

“Come now,” said his uncle.

Amara got out of the car and waited as the other man retrieved his bag. The driver closed the trunk, nodded, then left.

They descended a long flight of stairs to Penn Station. Two National Guardsmen in battle dress were standing against the wall, M4s ready.

Amara wondered if they had ever used them in battle. Neither man had the hard glance that he associated with tested warriors.

His uncle led him down the long hall of shops, past stores and stalls. Amara’s nose was assaulted from every direction; his stomach began to call for food.

They stopped in a crowd of people. His uncle turned toward a large board with the names and numbers of trains.

“We’re just in time,” he told Amara, reaching into his pocket. “Here is your ticket. Your track is at the end of the hall. Take the elevator on the right. Number twelve. Go.”

Amara made his way to the train, an Amtrak Acela bound for Washington, D.C. He settled into a seat and tried to relax as the train pulled out of the station, running through the long tunnel to New Jersey. Within a half hour he had dozed off, exhausted by the travel.

He saw Li Han’s face in his dreams. It was exactly as he had seen him in Sudan: a mixture of sneering and respect, kindness mixed with disdain.

In the dream, Li Han began lecturing him about how to fly the UAV. Amara tried to pay attention, but there was one major distraction—the hole in the middle of Li Han’s skull where he’d shot him.

Somewhere in Delaware a conductor shook Amara awake.

“Did you have to get off at this next stop?” asked the man.

Amara jerked upright in his seat. He looked around—he wasn’t sure where he was.

“Do you have your ticket?” asked the conductor.

Amara pulled it from his pocket.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the conductor, examining it. “You’re Union Station. All the way in D.C. I apologize. I must have gotten you confused with someone else.”

He handed the ticket back. As he took it, Amara realized that he’d been given two tickets.

A message.

He glanced up at the man. He was almost white: Iranian, Amara would guess, or perhaps Iraqi.

There was a phone number on the second ticket. Amara understood he was to call that number when he arrived at Union Station. He tucked it into his pocket, then leaned against the side of the train, hoping to fall back asleep.