Cloudburst (6 page)

They were. He laid the one Samsonite at the head of the single bed, and the other at the foot. The key to the flat was left on the one at the head.

He gave the room a look from where he stood. It was nice. Nicer than anything he’d ever lived in. The colors were peach and blue, and the only window was catching the afternoon light. Back to his duty. He opened the second suitcase and removed its contents: a leather shoulder bag and a cloth sack which held the valued contents. As per his instructions he put the sack into the shoulder bag and closed the case. On his way out he noticed that the flat lacked some of the small things that came only with occupancy. Pictures and the like. This piqued his curiosity but did not break his discipline. He resisted the urge to explore, which was natural, having never been far from Belfast before.

With the brown leather bag slung on his right he exited the flat, locking the door before closing it behind. He could feel the other key in his shirt pocket without having to touch it. But he was nervous and ran a hand up just in case.
In case what, you fool? You already locked the bloody door!
To himself he shook his head. Iain would have to pass this one on to him.

The other flat was a half a kilometer away. He would leave the shoulder bag there and drop the key in the WC. Then, he would be on his way. The underground would be near, as would a bus stop. He would try the underground, he thought. It would be fun. Just a phone call left to place in a few hours. It wasn’t really work, then, was it, lifting up a telephone? It was all the better, though. He understood the need for a routine.

It’s not too bloody bad, this job
.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

He looked little like a soldier at the moment. He was, in actuality, much more. The shorts
were
military-issue swim trunks, but the T-shirt, emblazoned with a neon Nishiki logo on both the front and back, was non-regulation. That was excused, even expected, at the Stockade, the former military jail, which at present, and for the past decade and a half, housed the world’s most elite counterter-rorist force: Delta.

“Gotcha!” Captain Sean Graber blurted out. He had been at
Demon Ninja
for over an hour already and had, as yet, made it through only two of the twelve known levels. There would be more, he knew. New computer games from the
Demon
series had never disappointed him.

“Slay a nuclear robot or something?” Buxton asked. He was a lieutenant, right below Graber in team seniority, and he dressed equally as comfortably.

“A dark lord,” Graber answered without looking. “You want a try next, Chris?”

“Yeah, right.” Buxton snickered and went back to his book.

The eight men of Charlie Squad, Special Operations Detachment Delta, had been on alert since 1330 the previous day. That was a precaution and basically it required the team to be near their barracks—the unit rec room in this case—and have their gear ready. The latter was accomplished soon after the alert in the indoor firing range. They all checked the sighting and performance of their three standard weapons. Any special needs would be taken care of as required.

“Captain.” It was Major McAffee.

Graber paused the game and came to a relaxed attention, as did Buxton. “Sir.”

“The rest of your squad, Captain—where are they?” McAffee looked all business. He wore the old-style olive drab BDU—Battle Dress Uniform—but not the favored baseball-style cap.

“Back of the building. I think it’s a game of three on three.”

Blackjack, as the major was informally known, eased his stance. It was his job to ensure instantaneous readiness of the team on alert, and it was doubly important to him since he would lead any team that went into action. He was second in command of the ground forces of JSOC—Joint Special Operations Command.

The major noticed the computer was on, the image of a sword-wielding white knight frozen on the twenty-six-inch screen. “A good guy, I presume.”

Graber looked over his shoulder, smiling away from his superior. “A good guy, sir, of course.” The smile now was obvious to the major. “Good guys are always in white.”

McAffee wouldn’t allow a smile, though he wanted to.

“I’m sure you mean clothing, Captain.” The major’s skin was a dark chocolate brown, and there was a rumor among the team that his nickname was race-related, though they couldn’t figure out how or why. “Or are you referring to my tan?”

“Clothing, sir. Naturally.”

“Good.” The major heaved his chest out exaggeratedly and cocked his head to the side, pretending to examine the blond-haired captain. “You’re looking pale, Captain. Kinda pasty I must say.” His head shook, then he turned and walked out. “That boy’s gotta see the doc,” he said just outside the door, then he was gone.

“That’s one for the maj, Sean,” Buxton said, his own face covered with a wide grin. “Pasty! That’s a good one.”

Graber shook it off and laughed at the exchange. Mock verbal battles could be a hell of a good time. It was the real kind that scared you shitless.

“Okay, level three…watch out!”

Langley, Virginia

On the seventh floor of the Central Intelligence Agency’s headquarters, DCI Herb Landau was at work behind his light oak desk, which jutted out from a wall unit of bookcases and framed the director with the scene of the damp Virginia country behind him. Lines of rainwater trickled along the double window, which ran half the length of the wood- paneled wall and was more a transparent continuation of the wall than a true window. It did not open and its layered, tinted surface made the inclement weather seem more ominous than it truly was. It was the first good rain after summer. Landau had his chair swiveled and was watching the storm.

A knock at the door was a courtesy as Deputy Director, Intelligence Greg Drummond strolled in carrying his soft briefcase, one that he used only inside the Agency’s secure building. It made transferring sensitive files easier and less cumbersome than using the pyro-lock leather-over-steel attaché case required when transporting such material outside the confines of Langley. The DDI’s office was three doors down from the DCI’s, but he was a stickler for security procedures, and dutifully put the copy of the requested file in his case.

His boss smiled when he entered, stretching his hand across the nearly barren desk. Those were two of the things that made working for Herb Landau pleasant: He always greeted you with a handshake when first seeing you for the day, and he was impeccably organized. Work on his desk was in neat, square-edged folders, which found their way back to the file cabinet when he was through with them. Personal items were few. A picture of his wife of fifty-two years, Adella, and one of the entire family: six children, seventeen grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. And there was the clock. It was a gift from his longtime friend, the late president, upon his confirmation by the Senate as the Director of Central Intelligence, and it was as indicative of Landau’s thoughts on decor as anything could be. A simple wooden-cased timepiece, no bigger than a normal windup alarm clock, with two hands and a crescent moon which turned bright at night and dark in the daytime.

“Morning, Herb.”

The DCI glanced at the clock. Its sleeping moon face stared back. “Hardly, Greg. Is he here yet?”

The DDI nodded and pulled two chairs close to the desk and sat down, wondering why the director’s chairs were more comfortable. His domain in the Agency was the Intelligence Directorate, whose role and territory were all those things that collected, gathered, or generated intelligence data for the nation. Analysis of the data was also his turf, and, surprisingly to some, he had no idea how many people actually worked for him. Often the other major directorates—Science & Technology and Operations—overlapped with Intelligence and each other, but their primary roles were what their names indicated. Intelligence calls were his.

“Did you bring your copy?” Herb motioned to the case.

“Sure did.”

A security officer knocked, then opened the door for the guest. Bud DiContino entered. His hands were free, having left his briefcase on the Executive UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter, which would wait for him on one of Langley’s five marked pads. Another seven were routinely used some distance away from the official ones.

The DDI stood to greet the acting NSA. “Mr. DiContino, I’m Greg Drummond.”

“How are you doing?” Bud shook his hand, then the seated DCI’s. “I met you at the assessment conference at Meade a month ago, right?”

“That’s right,” Drummond answered. He liked the acting NSA, but had no overt reasoning for his feelings. He just seemed to be, at least, not a bastard, like so many appointees could be. “You did a good job. That was nice stuff on the low-grade-warfare concept.”

“That was my area of so-called expertise in the Air Force. Stealth technology and the like. Hell, that’s going to be the way of the next war.” Bud took the seat offered by the DDI, who sat down also.

“Next war.” Landau grunted, shaking his head. “Why do we always seem to be able to look
forward
to those instead of away? Hell, we’re supposed to be benefiting from the greatest thaw in superpower relations in fifty years, and we can still see ourselves at war! Oh…don’t mind me, Bud. I’m just an old fart who’s seen too many last wars, big ones and small ones. Believe me”—he brought a finger down on the desk for emphasis—“men die in any war, and one is too many, at least from what I’ve seen.”

“Yes, sir…” Bud began.

“No, please. I’m old enough without the ‘sir.’ It’s Herb.”

“Certainly,” Bud agreed, though calling the DCI Herb would take some getting used to. “What I mean by ‘next war’ is the probability of small, contained regional conflicts. If we get involved in those conflicts we’re going to need technology that will minimize our risks. The country won’t be ready to accept heavy casualties from any of these small actions. The Gulf War proved that it can be done, and damn decisively. Stealth and other technologies played a big part. I mean, if we can place a conventional and powerful smart weapon on a target from five or six hundred miles away, or hundreds of these weapons, then we can effectively fight the most dangerous part of any action—the beginning—from a safe distance. There are many, many uses for this kind of technology. But then that point is moot when you look at the cutbacks in R&D. That’s the one war the Congress usually wins.”

“You’re a convincing speaker, Bud, and you know the limits of rhetoric. I like that.”

Bud smiled at the DCI’s compliment. “Thanks, Herb.”

“How was the helo ride?” Drummond asked.

“Fine. I’m not used to a decked-out Blackhawk.”

It was Landau’s turn to smile. “Get used to it. This time tomorrow you’ll be official.”

“That’s not definite,” Bud said, knowing that it probably was.

The DDI reached for his wallet. “I’ll lay money on it.”

“Damn right,” Landau said. “Like I told you this morning, do yourself a favor and get up to speed on the idea of it.”

Bud was flattered but didn’t show it. Couldn’t show it He didn’t want to seem cocky. At fifty-two he felt younger than the DDI, who was a babyish forty-three, a result of the new-kid-on-the-block syndrome. He was a newcomer, and he could deal with that. As the DCI said, he was almost certain to be the new NSA, which went against conventional wisdom. That didn’t bother him because it obviously didn’t concern the president, who had requested him to arrive a half hour before the two P.M. NSC meeting. He would then be “official” for that meeting. The position was officially known as Adviser to the President for National Security Affairs, and had fortunately been condensed to the more widely known designation of National Security Adviser—NSA to the ‘in crowd.’ Press were the only ones to use official and full titles.

“Herb tells me you’re from Colorado. Snowmass, wasn’t it?” The skier in Drummond believed he had found another person with whom he could swap downhill stories.

“Born and raised,” Bud proudly affirmed. “I never got back there enough after Colorado Springs.”

“Air Force Academy—do any flying?” Drummond was probing for another of his passions. The DCI watched the two men with little knowledge of their apparent shared interests. He hated snow, and his experience with aircraft was limited to his duties as squadron painter aboard the old Lady Lex back in World War II.

“Four years in F-105s, mostly Wild Weasels.”

“Nam?”

“Yep. Two years of that was enough for my lifetime. I did not, repeat not, enjoy flying suppression for 52s. Down on the deck is definitely not the way to gain a love for the beauty of flight, especially when the guys you’re supposedly covering are forty thousand feet above you.” Bud didn’t go into the link he saw between his early career and Stealth technology.
B-2s don’t need Wild Weasels
.

“Sorry to interrupt, boys, but are either of you hungry?” The DCI’s illness hadn’t taken away his appetite. “Bud?”

He looked at his watch.

“Don’t mind the time,” the DDI reassured him. “Our mess is good and fast.”

“Sure, then.” Bud was hungry, not having eaten since a late dinner the previous night.

Herb nodded and took the phone. The sandwiches arrived five minutes later with a large pitcher of water and a smaller one of iced tea. Bud took a corned beef on rye, with a smile from the other men who chose the ham and Swiss on wheat. His first bite gave away the reason for their mild amusement.

“The executive cook has a thing for hot mustard,” Drummond shared with a chuckle.

Bud finished his bite and washed it down with a gulp of iced tea. “Obviously.”

The men finished the light meal in ten minutes as the cordial conversation was interrupted by the food and frequent drinks to quench the fire in Bud’s mouth. As the steward removed the tray and dishes, leaving the drinks on a separate tray, the atmosphere echoed the seriousness of the coming conversation. Bud could feel it.

The DDI opened his case and removed a single file. It was not unusual, except for the red-and-green label in the upper right-hand comer, under which was an acronym, MSRD, which Bud had become familiar with during his work on the Stealth program. It stood for Most Secret, Restricted Distribution. The red-and-green markings identified its ‘owner’ as the CIA. Each government agency with sensitive material was issued a color code. The CIA had this one, the Defense Intelligence agency was red and blue, the State Department was yellow and orange, and so on. This was intended mainly to prevent the mixing of files, and each page was also color-coded the same as its folder. Bud knew that the MSRD designation meant that fewer than ten pairs of eyes were authorized to view the material. Actually, he was to become only the fourth living human to have the right to know the contents of the manila folder.