Blood Covenent, page 29
He turned the meeting over to the FEMA director, who used his grimmest tone to explain the disaster looming in Connecticut. “Based on Energy department surveys and satellite data from NORAD, we believe the explosion was centered here.” He displayed a map of central Connecticut and showed a small town called Westchester with concentric red rings expanding outward. “There is a three-hundred-and-fifty yard crater expanding from where the intersection of Cemetery Road and Highway 149 used to be. I can’t show you a picture because the darkness and debris is obscuring our ability to see anything,” he finished lamely. The first circle was shaded, displaying the erasure of Westchester.
“The DOE people tell us this was a ground burst. The tremors extended for another eleven-hundred yards beyond the crater. Virtually every structure within this zone was damaged.” The next circle leading away from the epicenter was shaded. It covered an uncomfortably large area on the small map. “Structures that survived the initial blast were ripped apart by winds approaching three-hundred knots and earthquake like conditions,” he continued, and the next circle clicked into place covering the towns of North Westchester to the north and Bashan in the south. “The overpressure created a pressure wave that hit everything in the third circle. We have a number of fires, tree blow-downs, and heavy structural damage. The area road net is more or less destroyed. Helicopters are not an option, and we expect whatever might have survived is now dead. The area is very hot,” he said bluntly.
“Our major concern surrounds the towns of Pocotopaug Lake and Colchester. The issue here is radiation poisoning and radioactive fallout. We can reasonably expect fallout to continue for another eighteen hours. As you can see…” He spun the mouse pointer around the town symbol for Pocotopaug Lake. The town was on the far side of the lake and covered by Baker Hill. Highway 66 ran along the lake’s eastern shore. There appeared to be a significant cluster of small roads along the lake’s southern tip. “Highway 66 has suffered extreme heat stress. The black top has exploded in several areas. The area along the southern edge consisted of a number of homes, many of them are on fire, and emergency services in Pocotopaug Lake are incapable of handling the fires. It appears those areas will simply have to burn themselves out.”
He sighed. There was not much good news in his report. “The biggest problem is Colchester. You can see it lies almost due east of the blast center. I-2 runs into highway 16 on the western edge of town.” He clicked the pointer on the intersection. “I have received numerous reports of thermal burns, radiation sickness, and spontaneous blindness from people being pulled out of this area. The radiation cloud is half way between where Westchesterused to be and Colchester. According to the weather forecast, the prevailing winds will bring the cloud over Colchester in another four or five hours, and the cloud should finally dissipate two or three miles east of Colchester late tomorrow morning. My people out of Boston tell me that Colchester is going to die. It will be a significant hot spot for a long time.
“Martial law has been declared for most of the affected counties. The major roads leading into the area are closed, and obviously, the roads inside the zone have ceased to exist. The National Guard is on the ground and anyone who can drive is being moved out.”
“What’s the casualty count?” asked the NSA.
The FEMA Director shook his head. “We estimate five hundred missing, and we might never have an accurate count on that. Burn victims number well over a thousand, a lesser number of blindness cases and radiation sickness—well, we know we’ve got a problem here,” he concluded.
TweedledeeandTweedledum looked at each other across the table. The Chief of Staff thanked the FEMA Director for his hard work and sent him on his way. Once the Marine Guard closed the door, the NSA angrily stated, “This is an outrage, and someone is going to pay.”
The Chief of Staff sat back in his chair, staring up at the map and concentric circles. “Do we know who did this?” He shifted his gaze to Feldman.
“Not exactly,” replied the FBI man.
“What are the Russians doing?” asked the NSA.
The military situation was obvious from the thirty-inch monitors hanging overhead. At several points on this side of the Arctic icecap there were markers identifying bomber squadrons waiting for a GO code. The disposition of naval forces was purposely vague, but ten of the eighteenOhio Class missile boats had headed towards their patrol areas in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. The three major Minuteman sites were circled in green and formed a weird triangle along the northern tier of the country.
Russia had decided something was up. The National Security Agency reported major signal traffic between the four main Strategic Rocket Forces (RVSN) headquarters. The JCS Chairman, present in a digital form, suggested, “We are seeing increased activity with their land-based missile systems. Their Navy seems incapable of mounting much of a threat unless they plan to launch from a stationary position in dock. Our intelligence estimate suggests that of the forty-one ballistic missile boats they have under current treaty rights, twelve have been cannibalized, seven lack fuel, two are at sea and the rest would have a hard time scraping together competent crews.”
The screens switched, showing four Tu-160Blackjack bombers. They were lined up in pairs on two runways. “This is effectively the Russian Federation’s entire strategic bomber force. TheBlackjack is a copy of our B-1 bomber. They managed to build eighteen of them before the Soviet Union collapsed, and Ukraine ended up with fourteen of the bombers. This is a current satellite image.” He paused. “They’re running the engines. Presumably, they have orders to launch in the event we retaliate.”
Tweedledumformed a steeple with his fingers and concluded, “So they don’t have a very potent military force here.”
Louis cringed inside. Maybe it was not the country Reagan defeated, but they still had many more missiles than China, and, once they were launched, there was nothing that could stop them before they reached the North American continent. Presumably, the Russians could launch their olderBear bombers once they got the nuclear ordinance changed on their air-launched cruise missiles. Cruise missiles were no longer an option for the B-52 crews, having spent all of them over Kosovo. The strategic defense initiative remained an idea because some people thought it necessary to interpret the anti-ballistic missile treaty in such a way as to hamstring the American effort at ballistic missile defense. Louis could sense the tenor of the conversation. These boys were racing towards afirst strike scenario.
Tweedledeepiped up, asking, “Are you suggesting we hit them first?”
The Chief of Staff waved a hand. “It’s a consideration. I mean, we can take down four bombers—”
“Sir,” interrupted the JCS Chairman, “With all due respect, there are no guarantees that we can hit all their missile silos effectively before they can launch. The Russian Federation has moved to their current war footing in response to our moves. We’ve examined the satellite evidence prior to the explosion in Connecticut, and we have no evidence of any preparations.”
The Chief of Staff said quietly, “They didn’t want to tip their hand. Remember how they got to Pristina before the British. They’re sneaky bastards.”
“They could get at least twenty-five percent of their missiles off in a scenario where we preemptively launched without warning. The Russians went into a heightened state of readiness once they discovered our reactions to the explosion. That percentage went up the to sixty percent now that they have reacted to our actions,” continued the JCS Chairman.
“You’re concerned about their missiles?” asked the NSA as if this were a new thought. “I understood they were rusting away in their silos.”
“That may be true, sir,” said the JCS Chairman. ”However, we know there have been numerous violations of the START I treaty, especially where launchers and the SS-25 mobile missile platforms are concerned. I would be remiss in my duty if I didn’t remind you of these problems.”
An unpleasant topic to be sure.
“That’s State’s problem, and they’re doing a fine job in resolving these issues,” corrected the Chief of Staff. “We’re not in the business of Russian bashing around here.”
Louis popped a Pepto Bismol and wondered whenTweedledee andTweedledum would figure out that they were dealing with a bunch of paranoid Russians.
“Sir, our forces and the Russian Federation Forces are poised to strike. Need I remind you of our continued concerns regarding Russia’s ability to exert proper command and control over their strategic nuclear forces? While not everything they have will launch or explode, enough can and will to wreck the country. Is that what we want to be remembered for?” His words struck the administration’s most sensitive chord—their constant search for a legacy.
It causedTweedledee andTweedledum to disengage their tongues long enough for their brains to slip back into gear.
Louis leaned forward and said quickly, “According to the Energy Department analysis, this explosion matches the spectrum we expect from theSAMSON weapon.”
“A Russian weapon,” growled the NSA.
“Yes, sir,” agreed Louis. “A Russian weapon, but I doubt it was a weapon that was under Russian control.”
“Then who was controlling it?” snapped the Chief of Staff.
“The Hezbollah group—” started Louis.
“We’ve got ten dead bodies in the morgue,” said the Chief of Staff, cutting him off. He twisted towards Feldman and demanded, “Isn’t that right Agent Feldman?”
“Yes,” whispered Feldman.
“Ten people dead. Some of them shot by your own man I understand,” proclaimed the Chief of Staff looking back to Louis. “This is nuclear explosion on our watch. What kind of legacy is that?” he spat.
“There’s one more,” persisted Louis.
“One more what?” asked the Chief of Staff.
“Terrorist,” replied Louis.
TweedledeeandTweedledum collectively glared at Feldman. “Really?”
“Are you talking about the guy who capped Hassan Jamal?” snapped Feldman. He narrowed his eyes and snarled, “Your boy been talking to that renegade Randall? We have absolutely no proof he is anything more than a hired gun, and you want to connect the dots and suggest he is responsible for this? That’s preposterous!”
So there was still some fight left,observed Louis. “Thatrenegade as you so quaintly call him fingered the Yankee Stadium and had photographs of the twins my man took down a few days prior to that. Thatrenegade also connected the same man with the terrorists at the Trump Tower.” Louis was leaning forward. It was time to end this beforeTweedledee andTweedledum or Feldman developed any bright ideas.
“What are you talking about?” asked the NSA.
“The FBI converted a pilot project—the pilot project that first identified Jamal to find this last man. What it does is link all government and some primary private security cameras to an image database at Quantico. Only the system was proof of concept when it stumbled over Jamal. They’ve tried to convert it to a full blown system and piped in most everything on the East Coast,” explained Louis.
“Who told you that?” asked Feldman.
Louis gave the FBI man a pained look. “Do you really think you could tap into that many security systems without ringing a few bells? The National Security Agency and the National Reconnaissance Office are screaming because they’ve lost a couple of T3 lines, and what do you have to show for it?” challenged Louis.
“So?” snapped Feldman.
Louis leaned back. The trio was quite confused. “My man tells me you’re effectively drowning the system with data and whatever it spits out might be one in a thousand. He doesn’t have the manpower to chase down every lead,” explained Louis, pointing a finger at Feldman. “That’s why he’s asking for more and more agents. He bet the farm and came up short.”
The Chief of Staff understood blood on the water. The FBI was floundering. Besides the first break, everything had come through a back channel and Edwards was taking advantage ofthat information. “All right, Louis, you obviously know something—out with it.”
Feldman started to open his mouth, only to find it slammed shut by a steely glare from the NSA. Louis pointed at the monitor with the fourBlackjack bombers. “The man on the other end of this game is General Oleksei Kolokol. He’s clueless about suitcase bombs, and he wouldn’t start something like this with most of his major assets in a readiness condition where he is uncertain what will and will not work.”
“How could you know that?” whispered the NSA.
Louis sucked in some air. It was time to roll the dice and gamble everything on these frightened men. “I met Kolokol two days ago in Berlin. Kolokol doesn’t know about theSAMSON weapon,” said Louis, wondering if there would be any corrections to his story from the NSA. “Further, I am convinced that a rogue KGB officer went into business for himself and sold these weapons to groups he would have contact with.”
“Who’s Kolokol?” asked the NSA.
“He’s the commander of the Russian Federation’s Strategic Rocket Forces,” explained the JCS Chairman.
“Who authorized the meeting?” snapped the Chief of Staff.
“No one,” replied Louis evenly.
“Never mind that,” said the NSA. He ignored the Chief of Staff, and Louis wondered again which one really carried ultimate power. “You’ve got a theory.”
“An explanation.” Louis corrected. “The bomb went off, but think about it. There is no political or strategic value to this target. The three targets we know about, Yankee Stadium, Trump Tower, and Rockefeller Center, were high profile, and high-density opportunity targets designed to maximize the kill zone. This bomb must have gone off prematurely or due to a flaky countdown timer. I doubt the Russians know about the clock trigger, and I’m sure theHezbollah has no concept.”
“It’s plausible,” suggested the Chief of Staff after a few moments of silence.
The NSA nodded his head. “And spinnable.”
TweedledeeandTweedledum nodded together.
“What do you want?” asked the NSA.
Patriotism was as foreign as honesty in this place. Louis understood the seamier side of his world. He never got used to finding it at 1600 Pennsylvania. “I want Randall to be given his head and the resources to get the job done.”
Feldman pointed a trembling finger at Louis. “I will not provide you—”
The NSA slammed his palm flatly on the table. “Agent Feldman, so far I have heard only excuses from you and your people. The FBI has failed to produce anything that might have prevented this tragedy. Now, we have dead people, and dead people create bad press and congressional busybodies.” No one needed to explain where the congressional investigations might lead. Telling people you might have slipped up and let foreign nationals steal plans for every nuclear warhead was one thing. To let someone punch a hole in the middle of Connecticut was a problem that might never go away.
The Chief of Staff examined Louis like spoiled meat. “Louis thinks he can handle this problem. All right, Louis you’ve got your chance. I’ve read about your organization. You’ve got a couple of people, and seem to know more than the rest of us. Sofix it.” The Chief of Staff turned back to Feldman and said quietly, “If he wants this Randall fellow, let him have him. I understand you weren’t pleased with the man’s work anyway.”
Feldman scowled. “He thinks he’s the Lone Ranger. Fine! Take him!”
“Anything else?” smiled the Chief of Staff.
“I’ll let you know,” replied Louis tiredly.
* * * *
Beirut, Lebanon
Fakih Al-Zeid waddled across his club’s tiled entryway. Wealth and time had combined to increase his bulk to almost three hundred pounds. He relied on young Nigerians with sunglasses to do his fighting these days. The club’s veranda overlooked the turquoise Mediterranean, and if one ignored the occasional pockmark from a bullet or grenade fragment, it brought back memories of a happier time when Beirut was the Arab banking center. Sixteen years of fighting turned most of the central district into moonscape. The smart money fled to Switzerland, the Caribbean, and America—havens for Arab wealth and Jewish speculators.
What remained were victims, refugees, and the less savory types. Fakih fell into the last category. Beirut would always have its thieves, whores, and beggars. Fakih sold weapons to any Arab group with the money to pay for them. He supplied most sides in any conflict, and Lebanon had plenty to choose from. His business dealings created a lavish lifestyle of fast women, hard liquor, and a hefty loan-sharking venture on the side.
The Israelis, the French, and the British wanted Fakih’s head. He funneled weapons to any group pledged to overthrow Israel. He spoke seven different languages and traded in land mines, rifles, and grenades for the average terrorist. He produced the occasional helicopter or armored personnel carrier, but these were extravagances that only private armies could afford, and usually they had some patron nation to bankroll their particular mayhem.
Fakih had a practical side. He considered himself an environmentalist of sorts. Where tree huggers looked for cans to recycle, Fakih did the same with weapons. He was actually one ofThe Boys. His was one of those shadowy operations that emerged in the secret world. It was quite simple. He sold weapons to very willing buyers, informed the MOSSAD as to his recent customers, and quietly, those weapons never really threatened Israel. The Israeli Defense Force usually found the group, eliminated it, and repackaged the merchandise so that Fakih could start the entire cycle over again. He split the profits fifty-fifty with Jerusalem.
Fakih appraised his customer—Aswad. Where Fakih was overweight, almost six feet tall, and approaching fifty, Aswad was thin with an acne-scarred face, and barely above five feet. They embraced, exchanging pleasantries before walking slowly into Fakih’s office. The heavy oak doors closed silently behind them, and the Nigerian bodyguards maintained an ebony Sphinx-like presence.
