Blackout Page 14

  “You know, Scott,” Hernandez said from over Scott’s right shoulder, “if you’d be a little more hard-nosed with the higher-ups, maybe we wouldn’t all be crammed into this—”

  “Shut up! I know,” Scott replied angrily.

  “You almost got it just then, although that made you sound a little more like a jerk,” Hernandez said.

  Scott turned and glared at him. Then he said to Evie, “Okay, let’s see—”

  “Tara, are you able to see from there?” Khadi asked from right next to Scott. “Why don’t we change places? I’m used to eyeballing the side of a monitor.”

  “Really? Thanks,” Tara said as she and Khadi wedged past each other. Now that Tara was pressed up against Scott in the tiny space, Khadi turned to him and gave him a little grin.

  Oh, great! Me and my big mouth! Now I’m going to have to deal with Khadi trying to put Tara and . . . What’s that . . . ? Tara’s hair smells incredible, Scott thought as he leaned in closer for a deeper whiff.

  “Should we get this—,” Tara said as she turned around to Scott, her face now inches away from his. “What are you doing?”

  “Uh . . . I was thinking. . . . You know, processing through about how . . . about how we might be able to better utilize our office space,” Scott said, feeling the color rush to his face. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, well, actually I do have a few thoughts on the subject,” Tara answered, leaning away just a touch. “But don’t you think since everyone’s here, we should see what Evie’s found? Maybe we could meet up later and talk through the office layout.”

  “Sure, you’re exactly right. Evie, show us what you got.”

  As Tara turned around, Khadi gave Scott a subtle thumbs-up. Quickly, her thumb was joined by thumbs belonging to Hernandez and Williamson. Even Evie’s thumb showed her approval below Tara’s sight line, and back at his station Gooey gave a barely audible “Woop, woop!”

  Lovely, just lovely, a thoroughly embarrassed Scott thought as Evie began her presentation.

  “Okay, so a while back we decided that the weapons probably didn’t go by plane, ship, or train out of the DPRK. The international community has the North Koreans so tightly monitored that it would be too big of a risk. So the only other option is truck.”

  “Right, I remember that,” Scott encouraged.

  “East is the ocean, and south is South Korea. So the only options are northeast into Russia and north or west into China. Russia didn’t seem plausible because of the difficult terrain going up through the north part of the DPRK and into Primorsky and Khabarovsk. But Joey’s still been following up that route, and he’s come up empty. Am I right?”

  “Empty as Stalin’s cold heart,” Williamson confirmed.

  “Interestingly antiquated metaphor, Joseph. Minor props,” Evie said appreciatively. “So the rest of us have followed the China route. Our hypothesis has been that China would probably have to know about what was being shipped through their country—there are too many checkpoints along the way, not including the two borders, to think otherwise. However, they would also want plausible deniability. So we figured there would be no rigging of the shipping manifests or load documents.”

  Tara, her head filling Scott’s senses with a coconutty piña colada scent, said, “Right. This way they could apologize, say that there were mistakes made—maybe execute a border guard or two—and they’d be golden.”

  “Exactly. Now, comparing manifests from the North Korean border crossings with all of China’s other border crossings was crazy hard, but Gooey created a filtering program that really sped up the process. Right, Goo?”

  A click was heard on Evie’s speakerphone as Gooey took his phone off mute. “Yep,” he said, then clicked back off.

  However, Scott thought there was something in the background during that short moment. . . . “Gooey,” he called out, “are you playing Halo over there while we’re meeting?”

  “Uh, no, sir,” Gooey replied, clicking on and off.

  “Let me rephrase. Gooey, are you playing any computer game while we are holding this all-important strategic meeting during which we might just come up with a plan that could save our entire nation?”

  Click. “Uh, maybe, sir.” Click.

  “Well, stop!”

  Click. “Uh, yes, sir.” Click.

  Crazy multitasking freak, Scott thought, secretly wishing he too could divide his mind so effectively. “Go on, please, Evie.”

  “Right,” Evie said, obviously enjoying every minute of this. “Gooey’s filter left us with just over six hundred manifests for the last three months.”

  “Why so few?” Khadi asked.

  “First of all, North Korea is much more an importer than an exporter, both because of economy and because of the global political climate against them. Second, what they do send out primarily goes out by water or rail. And third, most of what they send into China by truck stays in China. The country is too big and too inhospitable to traverse by road unless you really had a fear of railroads or—”

  Click. “Siderodromophobia.” Click.

  “What?” Scott asked.

  Click. “Fear of railroads.” Click.

  “Don’t be too impressed,” Virgil Hernandez said. “He just sits there with Google open waiting to look something up so that he can sound really smart.”

  Click. “. . .” Click.

  “Or . . . ,” Khadi said, prompting Evie to continue.

  “Or really had something to hide,” she said with an appreciative nod toward Khadi. “We were able to rule out all but twenty-two of the manifests by following them to their destinations—mostly all down into Southeast Asia. The twenty-two open manifests were primarily from the western border of China. We set aside the six going into India and Kashmir because of our good relations with them. Then also set aside the five countries that only had one truck going in on the premise that whoever is masterminding this wants to deal with as few governments as possible.”

  “Aren’t you making a lot of assumptions in this?” Khadi asked.

  “Definitely,” Evie answered. “We haven’t ruled out those others, just set them aside while we follow one strain of hypotheses.”

  “Fair enough,” Khadi said.

  “So cutting to the chase, there were four trucks that have stood out from the rest,” Evie said, bringing a map of Asia up on her computer screen. “They all crossed out of China and into Tajikistan, then into Afghanistan, where they’ve now disappeared.”

  “Are you sure about Tajikistan?” Tara asked. “Our relationship with them has been pretty solid lately. We’ve even got troops stationed there.”

  “Honestly, that’s the only big question—why Tajikistan? Then we got thinking about their history. Who are the Tajiks most closely related to?”

  Click. “Iran.” Click.

  “That’s no fair, Gooey,” Evie complained. “You were in on that discussion. Quit stealing my thunder.”

  Click. “Sorry.” Click.

  Evie continued. “And what country is on the other side of Afghanistan from Tajikistan? Iran. You see, the Tajiks are Persian. They even speak Persian, although they call it Tajiki. The roots between the two countries are very strong, and they seem to be strengthening. Just a couple years ago, Tajikistan threw its support behind Iran’s bid for membership into the Shanghai Cooperation Organization.”

  “And remind me what the Shanghai Cooperative thingy is?” Scott said.

  “The SCO is made up of China, Russia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan. And their whole reason for forming was to oppose American interference in Central Asia. So, as you can see, the Tajiks are certainly not our best friends.”

  “So bring me up-to-date. What’s the status of your search now?” Scott asked.

  “Well, like I said, we’d lost the four trucks . . . until now,” Evie said.

  Her words were followed by a clatter from across the room, followed by some rapid, heavy footsteps. Suddenly Gooey’s oversize head
popped up next to Williamson’s.

  “Say what?” he said, slightly out of breath.

  Evie smiled. “I thought that might get you moving. I think that I just now might have found one of the trucks. And if I’m right, it shipped out from Bushehr, Iran, just six days ago.”

  Scott was elated. This gang is unbelievable! I’ve got to get word up the chain as soon as possible. If we’re going to do anything to stop these shipments, it’s going to take some serious international relations!

  “How sure are you of this?” Scott demanded.

  “Probably about 25 percent right now.”

  That deflated Scott just a bit. But he knew that analyzing intelligence was a volatile business; one new piece of information could bump a percentage up to 100 or drop it to 0.

  “Do everything you can to increase that. There’s no way I can ask for a raid in international waters on a ship flying a different country’s flag based on 25 percent,” Scott said as he started to squeeze himself out of the cubicle. “Joey, you keep the sweep going for other options. The rest of you join up with Evie.”

  “Wait,” Evie called out to a rapidly departing Scott. “Don’t you even want to know how I found it?”

  “Write it in a memo,” Scott called back as he entered his office. He reached for the phone to call Stanley Porter, but it rang just before he picked it up.

  “Ross,” he answered.

  On the other end of the line he heard a sigh, then an angry voice. “Did you not get the telephone etiquette memo that was sent around?” Scott immediately recognized Secretary Dwayne Moss’s voice.

  “I believe I did get it and placed it in my very important—”

  Ignoring Scott’s words, Moss continued, “You answer the phone by department, division, title, and name. So your greeting should be what?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I will read the memo.”

  “Your greeting should be . . . ,” Moss prompted him again.

  “Department of Homeland Security, Special Operations Group Bravo, Director Scott Ross,” he answered, thinking that by the time he got that out, whatever threat they were being called to stop would have already occurred and now be in the cleanup stages.

  “How . . . ,” Moss continued to push.

  “. . . de-do?”

  “. . . may I help you! How may I help you? Is that really too difficult for you, Ross?”

  “It is a little long, sir, but maybe if I write myself a cheat sheet and keep it by the phone, I’ll be okay,” Scott suggested, knowing that the next phone call he received would be answered with the same one-word greeting he’d always used.

  “Listen, Ross, I don’t need your sarcasm or your back talk! So knock it off!”

  Scott kept silent.

  “The reason I’m calling is that I’ve decided I want daily updates of all your work on this whole EMP thing. Each of your analysts will write up a detailed update of their day’s activities, time allocation, and findings. Then you will collect them, summarize them, and have them in my in-box by 8:00 the next morning. Do you understand?”

  Scott couldn’t believe his ears. “But, sir, do you know how much of my evening that will suck up, let alone the time that will be taken away from the analysts doing what they’re supposed to be doing?”

  Moss’s voice went shrill. “I am the United States secretary of Homeland Security! What the analysts are supposed to be doing is what I say they’re supposed to be doing! This is not up for debate! I expect the first set of reports to be in my in-box tomorrow morning! Do I make myself clear?”

  “Couldn’t I just give you a daily status—”

  “Do I make myself clear?”

  Scott paused to control his emotions. “Crystal.”

  “And I know you, Ross. You best not be thinking that this is something that you can just blow off. Don’t mess with the bull, young man, or you’ll get the horns.”

  “Yes, sir,” Scott said, his demeanor suddenly changing from outrage to barely controlled laughter. How bizarre, yet how appropriate, that Moss should be quoting threats from Mr. Vernon of The Breakfast Club. I should ask him if Barry Manilow knows that he raids his wardrobe. But instead of digging his hole deeper, Scott asked, “Is that all, sir?”

  “That’ll be all.”

  “Okay. Department of Homeland Security, Special Operations Group Bravo, Director Scott Ross . . . out!”

  Scott quickly hung up the phone before Moss had a chance to respond. He jotted himself a note to call Stanley Porter later in the afternoon to prepare him for Moss’s inevitable tirade when he discovered that there was no report in his in-box in the morning.

  What an idjit! What a maroon, Scott heard Bugs Bunny saying in the back of his mind. Scott knew he was playing with fire when it came to Moss, but he just couldn’t help himself. Stupidity breeds contempt. And this man is most contemptible. I may get bit on this one, but so be it. There’s no way that I’m going to pull my gang away from their work just so this buffoon can get a report each morning that he probably won’t even read.

  Resolved in his course of action, Scott leaned back in his chair, kicked his sandaled feet up on the desk, and began tossing a pen in the air. Now for more important things. It looks like it just might be time to consider unleashing “The Acquisition of Riley,” phase two.

  Sunday, August 23, 2:05 p.m. IRDT

  Tehran, Iran

  Ayatollah Allameh Beheshti’s heels clicked down the hallway until he turned into his carpeted office. His secretary, Bahman Milani, a young man who had been a student of his less than ten years ago, left his own workspace directly across the hall and followed Beheshti. In his hands, he held a silver and glass tea set with the pot freshly filled from a small, antique brass samovar that Beheshti kept in his own office. The samovar used to belong to Beheshti’s grandfather, himself a well-known cleric in his hometown of Esfaha-n. The tea set was a priceless gift from the Grand Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini.

  When Beheshti was a student at Faziye Seminary in Qom, he had studied Islamic law and philosophy under Khomeini, who seemed to take a special interest in his brilliant young student. Then the shah had banished the spiritual leader from the country.

  The day Khomeini left Iran was one of the worst Beheshti could remember. Suddenly he was on his own, his leader, guide, and protector gone. Ultimately, though, his mentor’s exile had been one of the best things for young Beheshti. He was suddenly forced to stand for himself and make his own way in the world rather than just riding the train of Khomeini’s robe. Twelve years later, when Beheshti’s own political activity got him into trouble with the government, he was able to join the ayatollah in his exile in Najaf, Iraq, as a true, mature man of God.

  Those three years in Iraq teaching alongside Khomeini were the best of his life. He was amazed at the great leader’s wisdom and awed by his presence. When the shah fled Iran in 1979, Beheshti was on the plane that returned the Grand Ayatollah to his home. He could still close his eyes and visualize watching through his window on the Air France jet as the seventy-seven-year-old leader was aided down the stairs to the ramp. That was the beginning of a new dawn for Iran.

  The days of Grand Ayatollah Khomeini as Supreme Leader were a blessing for the country. Radical reforms were made. All the Western-influenced moral pollution was rooted out of society. Once again, the Koran became the basis of the legal and political system. There was little doubt that Allah was smiling upon the great nation and upon its glorious leader.

  But now, things had changed. Grand Ayatollah Khomeini was gone and a new Supreme Leader sat in his place. Beheshti held nothing against the new leadership. The very fact that the current Grand Ayatollah had been in power more than twenty years was a testimony to his skills and wisdom. There was no doubt that he had been a strong, competent leader. It was just that anyone short of one of the great prophets would have paled in comparison to Khomeini. And lately it seemed the Grand Ayatollah was making some very wrong decisions, particularly when it came to his choice of president.


  The president had been hand-picked by the Supreme Leader, but he was not the man to take the country to the next level of power and influence. He was an obnoxious little man who had let power go to his head—an unthinking zealot with a one-track mind. And when the Supreme Leader had a chance to get rid of him in favor of a man who could bring respect to the leadership of the country, he instead chose to keep the status quo—even being forced to rig the elections to keep the clown in place.

  The Supreme Leader lost big in that election. Even though he kept his man in office, he lost some influence among his people, who took to the streets for months afterward to protest his manipulations.

  It was almost as if the Grand Ayatollah had known right away that he had made a mistake—the way he didn’t allow the president to kiss his hand after the election but only his shoulder. I think the protests surprised him and shook the usual confidence he had in his decisions. But that is water under the bridge now. What’s done is done, and what’s rigged is rigged. The election was rigged; the protesters were beaten and shot; the world’s outrage was ignored. And in Beheshti’s mind, the Supreme Leader had done that all so that this wonderful country with millennia of history and glory, this bastion of Islamic strength and piety, could be led by a man of half-truths and gimmicks.

  This country needs more than gimmicks, Mr. President, Beheshti thought as with a nod he took a freshly filled teacup from Milani, who then left the room. And it needs more than just a single-issue national policy.

  He sipped the scalding red liquid, feeling the burn wash down his tongue and against his throat, and placed the silver-rimmed glass cup on his desk. He took a handful of ajeel—a mixture of dried fruit and nuts—from a dish that Milani somehow always seemed to keep full and began popping it in his mouth as he continued thinking.