Directive 51 (11 page)

In other words, the government forces will win unless they don’t.
Nobody said anything about how the raiders would be getting there, with the airport closed. “Naval units” (but the communiqué didn’t say which ones) were “on their way,” and “we expect a satisfactory resolution within a short time” according to an Indonesian defense spokesman, also in Jakarta—farther from Jayapura than DC is from LA.

Heather scanned the FAQ window (
and just how can any question about
this
situation be asked “frequently” yet? Illiterates!
). She found
timetable.

Two hours before anyone knew that Air Force Two was missing.

Almost five hours before anyone American realized it was probably in hostile hands.

Modified Boeing 787 Dreamliner, cruised at Mach 0.9, fully fueled. Still seven hours flying time left at normal cruise; could reach the opposite side of the planet without refueling.

They had been unable to turn on the secure transponders via satellite, which probably meant Bell had told the other side how to find and destroy them.

Satellite and air reconnaissance revealed no trace of the big white plane on the ground or in the air anywhere near Jayapura. The “Air Force Two Possible Area” now extended nearly from pole to pole, and along the equator from the 135 West meridian (about two-thirds of the way from the mainland to Hawaii) all the way to the 55 East meridian (just short of Madagascar and running north through the Persian Gulf and Iran).

A light touch on her shoulder made her look up at Cameron. “I just wanted to say,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Big mess, eh?”

“Just wanted to say hi to a friendly face before I got into this.”

“Best of luck,” she said, “and I mean that.” At the FBI, she’d been the closest thing he’d had to a friend; that had always made her feel sorry for him.

President Roger Pendano entered, flanked by DoDDUSP Mark Garren. Both men looked tired, shocked, and old. “Here we go,” Cam said, and hurried to the rostrum by the big screen.

“By now you are all aware of the basic situation, but more bad news, just confirmed, will update your timelines on your screens in a couple of minutes. Here it is in brief:

“About forty-five minutes ago, three bodies fell into a large town square in Nakhon Ratchasima, Thailand, apparently dropped from a large unmarked white plane, with twin engines, which was flying low over the town—no positive identification, so far, by anyone we can trust to definitely identify a 787. Local air traffic control confirms that they had a big plane that didn’t answer any radio hail and continued on its way to the northwest.

“The American Embassy has claimed the bodies for an autopsy, but they fell more than a mile and landed on pavement. A Navy doctor from the
Franklin Roosevelt
is still on her way to do the positive identification. Tentatively, we believe them to be Carol Tattinger, the State Department liaison for Vice President Samuelson’s mission; Martin Reeve, the Defense liaison; and William DeGrante, the Homeland Security liaison. A great circle route from Jayapura through Nakhon Ratchasima extends along a line that skirts the Burma-China border, and then across the very northern edge of India—which is to say one that more or less walks the line between Indian and Chinese airspace. Those are the two competent air forces in that region, and they don’t get along with each other, so if that is Air Force Two, the hijackers may be hoping to be able to dodge across the border if either side tries to intercept.

“That great circle line would take the plane up into wild country in Central Asia, where various Islamist warlords and criminal gangs hold actual power.

“We’ve lofted minis—short-term satellites—using the Raptor augmented system, out of Germany, and Global Hawks have already taken off from Bagram, so if it stays in the air, we should be able to find that white plane within the hour. India has been completely cooperative—they’ve offered us landing rights as needed and some of their own planes are out searching even as we speak. When you ask China for help, of course, you never know what the answer is going to be until they give it.”

That caused State and Defense reps to interrupt and argue; Heather had time to access the spreadsheets that had generated the graphics on the main board.

Cameron was going on. “—well be a diversion or a part of some larger plan, or there may be something we are not seeing. This is not a usual sort of—”

That’s it.
Heather typed the numbers in frantically, saw the result, scrolled back, found what she wanted, and highlighted it. She tagged it
Inconsistent data / possible ruse
and hit SEND.

Cam was saying, “So if there are no more questions—wait. Ms. O’Grainne?”

Heather said, “Based on flight time since Air Force Two left Jayapura, and the time the bodies fell in Thailand, that great circle arc is only about half as long as it should be. On that course at cruising speed, they ought to actually be in the ’Stans by now. And why throw three bodies from a plane over a city, let alone fly low over inhabited areas, when you could have gotten rid of the bodies for literally hours over the sea, or just left them behind in the first place? Especially when their best hope of success has to be in going undetected?

“Look at the consul’s report. They towed a Lion Airways plane into the hangar early that night; I just Goo-22ed photos of Lion Airways planes. They’re mostly white already, and they fly some 737s, which is a twin-engine airliner even if it’s an old one. You’d just need a few hours to repaint the tail and the markings and refuel, then drop bodies somewhere very public. They couldn’t make the timing come out right, and someone who knew something might recognize it was an old 737 and not a new 787, but they probably thought it was worth gambling that we wouldn’t be thinking clearly because we’d be too angry about what they did to our people.”

Cameron froze, which was a good sign; his first instinct, when things didn’t make sense, was always to stop moving until they did.

“It still might have been Air Force Two; those things could be explained,” Mark Garren, the DoDDUSP, pointed out. “Why would they run a whole second operation just as a ruse?”

“Mr. Plekhanov of NSA has a comment,” Cameron said.

Lenny’s good hand trembled as he adjusted his headset. “
Timing
. There must be something we could do that would make a difference if we don’t waste any time. So the target is only partly the Vice President, since they already have him. They’re going to do something with him and that 787, and they want us to dither before we act. Meanwhile, Air Force Two is going somewhere to deliver the main blow. Look at the edge of the possible area.”

On the big board, slowly, just barely visibly, the curve of the places Air Force Two could have gotten to continued to widen.

“Not Hawaii. Not Australia or anywhere in Asia,” Cameron Nguyen-Peters said softly. “They’d have hit them hours ago if it was a target there. Anchorage just came within reach, Juneau will soon—Marshall, can you do us a geometric, focus on the next areas to become vulnerable in say the next two hours—show us when each part of the West Coast comes in range?”

“Already working on it, sir, coming up—” a voice said over the speakers.

The screen popped and adjusted, revealing a severely distorted map of the west coast of North America. The familiar coastline had been bent and twisted till it looked like claws reaching into the Pacific. “Nearest targets south of Alaska,” Marshall said, his voice calm and dispassionate over the speakers, “on the great circle routes. First the area around Coos Bay, then Puget Sound, and then gradually down to south California, with a lot of hops and skips because the coast bows out a long way toward New Guinea around the California-Oregon line, and again down by LA.”

Garren drew a breath. “Mr. President, I recommend you activate Forward Sentry West.”

Pendano looked like he was going to throw up, but he turned to the quiet little man carrying the case beside him, and said, “Hand me the football. I certify that I am sane and there is a National Defense Emergency.”

“Authentication: Nineteen,” Garren said, and the football-carrier stepped forward and handed the little black case to the President.

Pendano opened it, placed his hand flat on a reader plate, brought a microphone to his mouth, and said, “Authenticate.”

“Authenticated,” the football said.

“Authorize Forward Sentry West. Not a drill. Mu Nu Brave Walker. Repeat not a drill. Mu Nu Brave Walker. Verify.”

“Authorize Forward Sentry West,” the football said. “Authorization begins in one minute unless intervention—”

“Accelerate. Gamma Omicron Dominant Eagle.”

“Forward Sentry West commenced.”

Pendano handed the football back to the carrier and sank into his chair, rubbing his eyes.

Garren looked around. “You should all know. Plan Forward Sentry West is a joint American-Canadian-Mexican total aerial blockade of the West Coast. All incoming flights will be diverted to quarantined landing fields, if they obey orders; if they don’t, they’ll be shot down.” He looked around and said, “Forward Sentry West will be run out of the Pentagon and NORAD at Cheyenne Mountain. So officially Secretary of Defense Kimura will be taking over. I’m going to request that they leave me here; it’s a mature plan and once a warplan is settled on, as DoDDUSP, I don’t have much to do; forgive my arrogance, Mr. Nguyen-Peters, but I think I’ll be more useful here, where we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”

“You’ll certainly be welcome.” Cam was normally all but expressionless, but even more so now; Heather wondered whether he was displeased to have a backseat driver or relieved that this wouldn’t be his affair much longer.

Garren nodded politely. “Given that this is the room where people will be cleaning up the domestic damage, it seems only reasonable for me to answer any questions you may have.”

“Hernandez, Agriculture.” The heavyset woman’s arms were folded on her chest, and she was glaring over her bifocals. “Are there any limits on the blockade? If it doesn’t comply, they shoot it down, no matter where or what or how?”

“Pilots are allowed some judgment,” Garren said. “If the legendary man in a lawn chair with balloons is out there, they’ll look at him before they shoot. But discretion cuts both ways. They don’t have to ask permission, just exercise judgment, to use tactical nuclear weapons in the interceptions.”

Cameron said, “Ms. Nakayara, FAA?”

The petite woman looked up from her desk. “Why would you use a nuke?”

“Gas, germs, or another nuke could be on that plane,” Garren said, quietly. “And airbursts of tactical nukes don’t produce much fallout. So the safest thing we can do in the circumstances is to, um, sterilize it thoroughly, if it’s someplace where collateral damage is tolerable. For example, if we’d been following Plan Forward Sentry back on September 11, 2001, we would have shot down but not nuked the planes once they were over DC and New York; but we’d have used a nuke on the one over rural Pennsylvania.”

“Good Christ,” Nakayara said, very quietly.

Heather thought she’d never heard anything put better.

Jason’s parking spot at the truck stop at the junction with I-90 was a jack-pot. To one side of the F-150, he tossed a black egg through a rolled-down window into an open bag of electrician’s tools in the back of a rusty Subaru. El Slobbo Electrico would spread nanoswarm everywhere he went, and if Daybreak was working, he’d be going a lot of places soon.

On the other side of the F-150, there was an elderly Prius that looked like it had last been washed when Bush was president, with junk-food wrappers, parking tickets, unopened mail, eviction orders, and court notices scattered across the back seat, an ode in debris to a freshman year ending at fall midterms.

Hunh. Massachusetts plate, new U of Montana bumper sticker. Probably on her way home. No doubt Little Muffin Dropout was all liberal, going to vote for Pendano, always did her community service at school with a smile, all that shit, and thought all her spiritual talk was making a difference in the world.
Muffy, you are about to make the biggest difference you are ever going to make.

“Hey, you like my ride?”

Jason turned. The plump girl with thick glasses and a dozen band buttons on her jacket held a giant mug of coffee and a big container of chicken nuggets.

“Just looking and thinking you were probably cool.”

“If you have some weed, we could chill.”

“We’re both out of luck,” he said, “but I was just thinking, this car needs some serious help, and like, I’d hate to have a cool person get all stranded and stuff.”
Jesus, I hope I’m being inarticulate enough to sound trustworthy.

About cars, Jason only knew what he’d picked up from being a gofer and light-holder for Carrie, the girl who kept the commune’s three old beaters running, but he was sure Miss Little Lost Muffin knew even less.

“Oh, man, that would suck to get stuck someplace. Once I got stuck when I was out with this guy drinking at UM, up at Lolo Hot Springs? and it turned out I was just out of gas and the battery was dead? but I like had to call my dad so he could call Triple A to tow the car the next day? but I like didn’t know that like at the time? So we needed to stay warm for the night, and the guy—”

Jason turned and fished in the toolbox for a few wrenches and screwdrivers, and shuffled four black eggs into his hands under the tools. “Well, let’s make sure you don’t get stuck this time. Pop your hood.”

He poked around and hmmed until she became bored and asked if she could turn on the stereo. That took about three minutes.

While she sat in the driver seat, eating her chicken, on the other side of the raised hood, Jason planted two eggs down low on the rear surface of the main generator—ambient heat wasn’t as good as solar, but it would work as long as one side of the egg was about 25 C warmer than the other. It looked like the cooling fan motor would blow the nanoswarm backward and down so that it didn’t build up and stop the engine too soon; he wanted Muffin here to keep rolling for a good long way, because I-90 would take her all the way back to Massachusetts, with bright sun on the south side the whole way, and if he could make this old prehistoric hybrid car scatter nanoswarm all along that highway, he could infect tens of thousands of cars. She was a perfect Patient Zero, and he didn’t want to squander the opportunity.