Blowback (4 page)

WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

Within twenty minutes, the situation room was packed with bodies and the air was thick with tension. Based on an emerging terrorist threat, the White House had gone into full crash mode.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” called the president. “It appears we’ve got a lot to cover, and I’d like to get started, so if you’d all take your seats please.”

The attendees did as they were instructed, and as a subdued hush fell over the room, the president nodded at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Hank Currutt.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” replied Currutt, who stood to address the room. “Two days ago, soldiers from the U.S. Army’s Third Arrowhead Brigade, Second Infantry Division Stryker Brigade Combat Team out of Fort Lewis, Washington-now based in Mosul, Iraq-responded to a call that three Christian aid workers had failed to check in with their organization and had gone missing. Traveling to the remote village near the Syrian border where the workers had been based, the soldiers uncovered something the likes of which we have never seen before.

“To brief you on what exactly it is that they found, I’m going to turn the floor over to Colonel Michael Tranberg. For those of you not familiar with Colonel Tranberg, he is the commander of the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases at Fort Detrick, Maryland. I have asked him here because USAMRIID is the Department of Defense’s lead laboratory for developing medical countermeasures, vaccines, drugs, and diagnostic tools to protect U.S. troops from biological warfare agents and naturally occurring infectious diseases. After the CDC in Atlanta, USAMRIID houses the only other Biosafety Level Four laboratory in the entire country, which allows Colonel Tranberg’s team to study highly hazardous viruses in maximum biological containment. I think that’s about it introduction-wise. Colonel Tranberg?”

“Thank you, General Currutt,” said Tranberg, a tall, gray-haired man in his sixties. He picked up a digital remote from the conference table, pressed a button, and the two plasma monitors at the front of the room came to life with the revolving USAMRIID logo. “The footage you are about to view was shot a little over a week ago in northern Iraq by the aforementioned Christian humanitarian aid workers from a group called Mercy International out of Fresno, California. Three of Mercy International’s workers had been based in the remote village of Asalaam, about one hundred fifty kilometers southwest of Mosul. When they failed to check in with Mercy’s main Baghdad office, calls were made, and eventually soldiers from one of the U.S. Army’s Stryker Brigade Combat Team were sent to check up on them. It was these same soldiers who uncovered this footage. We’ve edited it down to the most important parts, but I have to warn you, it’s not easy to watch.”

Tranberg pressed another button on the remote and sat down.

Everyone in the room watched with rapt attention as a young female aid worker, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two years old, chronicled a strange flulike illness, which was sweeping through the village. By the second day, though, the woman, as well as her two colleagues, fell ill and quickly grew too sick to continue filming. “From this point on,” narrated Tranberg, “we believe it’s one of the villagers, maybe a local person who had been working with the aid workers, who continues the filming.”

The group watched as the video further chronicled the sickness spreading throughout the village. Those who were infected needed to be physically restrained. All of the patients eventually exhibited extremely aggressive behavior, with many trying to bite their caregivers, or anyone who came across their path. In many of the afflicted, a bizarre state of heightened sexuality was also observable. Many of them complained of severe insomnia and headaches. They were hypersensitive to odors, particularly garlic, and couldn’t stand to see their reflection in anything from a mirror to a bedpan. In addition, they seemed to suffer from hydrophobia and had to be completely nourished intravenously, and even then, the few IV bags the village had available had to be hidden beneath towels, as patients who saw anything even remotely resembling water would fly into a rage and their throats would swell up, making it impossible for them to breathe. They were hypersensitive to light, and their skin had taken on a very strange pallor. The presentation cut to the final footage of the aid workers in the end stages of the illness.

Everyone around the table watched in silence as the aid workers began convulsing. Soon a strange, dark fluid began to pour from their nostrils, and moments later they were dead.

In the background of the video, villagers who had not yet become infected recoiled in horror.

When the clip was over, the video footage was replaced once again by the spinning USAMRIID logos. For a moment, no one spoke. It was obvious from the faces around the table that the footage had scared the hell out of everyone, including the president.

Dr. Donna Vennett, the surgeon general and a family medicine physician by trade, was the first to speak. “What is it? Some sort of Ebola strain? Hemorrhagic fever?”

“No on both counts,” responded Tranberg. “This is not like anything we’ve seen before.”

“What was that substance running out of the nasal passages before the victims died?”

“That’s a mystery as well.”

“Well, what do we know?” said Steve Plaisier, secretary of Health and Human Services. “We’ve obviously been called here for a reason. Is there a chance we might see an outbreak of this thing in the U.S.?”

“There’s more than just a chance,” responded General Currutt. “We’re counting on it.”

Homeland Security Secretary Alan Driehaus cleared his throat and said, “Why?”

“Because the village of Asalaam wasn’t infected by chance. It was specifically targeted.”

“Intentional infection?” said Plaisier.

Currutt nodded his head.

“What makes you so sure?”

The General activated his own laptop and projected a series of photos via the monitors at the front of the room. “Not only were all communication lines into Asalaam taken out, but the handful of vehicles the villagers collectively owned had been sabotaged-tires slashed, things of that nature. No one was going anywhere. Someone wanted that village completely isolated.”

“Who?”

Now it was Director of the Central Intelligence Agency James Vaile’s turn to speak. “We have some parallel intelligence we think might answer part of that question. Over the last two months, a high-ranking al-Qaeda operative named Khalid Sheik Alomari has been sighted in Dubai, Amman, Damascus, Cairo, Tehran, Rabat, Lahore, and Baghdad. And while he was in each of those cities, a highly respected Muslim scientist died. On the surface, all of the deaths appeared to be accidents or the result of natural causes. Originally, we thought that Alomari was doing the Middle East circuit to either fund-raise or coordinate a multicity attack. We had no idea until one of our analysts started connecting the dots that the man was there committing assassinations.”

“You said this Alomari was high-ranking,” stated Paul Jackson, the president’s National Security Advisor. “How high-ranking are we talking about?”

“Alomari is bin Laden’s protégé-handpicked to handle only the most sensitive assignments. It’s exceptionally concerning that we’ve attached him to what happened in Asalaam because Alomari’s main responsibility for al-Qaeda is to help conceptualize and orchestrate the most devastating attacks he can think of against the United States. He’s the only person in al-Qaeda said to hate America even more than bin Laden himself.”

“But how do we know Alomari and those dead scientists are connected to what happened in this village?” asked Secretary Driehaus.

“Because, besides probably being killed by Alomari, the scientists were all working on a highly secretive project for something called the Islamic Institute for Science and Technology in Bangladesh. Its mission statement is to improve the lives of Muslims worldwide through advancements in science and technology, but we’ve suspected for some time those aren’t their true marching orders.”

“Why is that?”

“They get paid lots of visits by scientists from Islamic countries we believe are involved with covert chemical, biological, or nuclear weapons programs. One of the institute’s directors, in fact, is especially fond of quoting Dr. Shiro Ishii, the head of Japan ’s bioweapons program during World War II. Ishii was the one who said that if a weapon is important enough to be prohibited, it must be worth having in one’s arsenal.”

The secretary of state, Jennifer Staley, replied, “Director Vaile, do we have any hard evidence connecting this institute with any covert weapons programs?”

“Yes, we do.”

“What’s the connection?”

“Jamal Mehmood.”

“Who is Jamal Mehmood?” asked Driehaus.

Vaile looked to the president, and when Rutledge nodded his head, Vaile explained, “He’s a Pakistani nuclear scientist. A couple of years ago, we found the schematics he designed for an anthrax-spreading device in an al-Qaeda training camp. The CIA was part of the team that helped track him down and detain him outside of Karachi. We were never able to substantiate his claims that the designs had been stolen.”

“I still don’t see the connection.”

“Both Mehmood and A.Q. Khan-the father of the Islamic bomb, who sold nuclear secrets to Iran and Libya-have not only been visiting professors but major fundraisers for the Islamic Institute for Science and Technology.”

The secretary of state held out her hands in front of her, as if balancing what she’d been listening to, and said, “So we have a serious mystery illness seen only in some remote Iraqi village on one hand and a high-ranking al-Qaeda operative who killed a bunch of scientists tied to some Islamic research group on the other. I’m still not seeing any connection here.”

General Currutt advanced to the next slide on his laptop and responded, “A few days before the people in Asalaam started becoming sick, Khalid Sheik Alomari was spotted crossing the Iraqi-Syrian border less than forty-five kilometers from the village. We believe Asalaam was a live test site for the virus.”

That was all it took. There wasn’t a single person in the situation room who could ignore the al-Qaeda link.

“So that’s it then,” said Jackson. “Al-Qaeda is now actively in the biowarfare game.”

Currutt brought up an organizational chart for al-Qaeda. Those who had been killed or captured either had either a slash or a red X through their photo. “Unfortunately, it would seem so. We’ve inflicted such significant damage on them that they’re growing desperate. In a sense, we’ve forced them to branch out in drastic new directions, one of which happens to be in the realm of chemical and biological weapons. They’re using Iraq and Afghanistan as justification for employing whatever weapons they can get their hands on to drive us from all Muslim lands.”

“Jesus,” responded Driehaus. “Talk about blowback. Every single move we make, whether successful or not, seems to come back to bite us in the ass twice as hard.”

It was exactly what everyone around the table was thinking.

“The good we’re doing over there far outweighs the bad,” said the secretary of state.

“I hope so,” responded Driehaus, “but I have to be honest. I’m worried our losses may soon overshadow whatever gains we might make.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that for better or worse, I’m more concerned with the welfare of the American people than I am with the Iraqis or anyone else over in that part of the world.”

“So what? We’re supposed to just bury our heads in the sand and hope that the terrorism problem will just go away? Because we all know that’s not going to happen.”

“All right,” interjected the president. “I respect that we’ve got a wide range of opinions in the room, but let’s all try to settle down and focus on the matter at hand.”

After several moments of awkward silence, the surgeon general said, “I suppose that if we don’t know what we’re dealing with, it’s pointless to ask if there’s a cure.”

“Pretty much,” said Colonel Tranberg, relieved to get back on track.

“How about the fatality rate? What can you tell us about that?”

“Well, that all depends upon on how you interpret the data. If you look at the village of Asalaam, one out of every two people died, which gives us a fifty percent fatality rate, which is extremely serious.”

“If the village is our only benchmark,” asked Plaisier, “then how else could you be looking at this?”

“We’re looking at the village, of course, but more importantly, we’re looking at the one out of every two villagers who died. You see, the area around Mosul is one of the largest Christian enclaves in the entire country. It isn’t unusual for Christians and Muslims to live side by side there. Asalaam was a perfect example of this. So perfect, in fact, that it was about fifty-two percent Muslim and forty-eight percent Christian.”

“And when you look at the deaths by religious affiliations?” asked the surgeon general.

Tranberg shook his head slowly. “Only the Muslims survived. If you weren’t Muslim, the illness was one hundred percent lethal.”

ALBANTOWERS APARTMENTS

GEORGETOWN

Helen Carmichael didn’t have to sleep with the young CIA analyst-the promise of a position in her cabinet would have been enough in itself, but the sex was a nice bonus. It wasn’t only powerful male politicians who attracted good-looking, hard-bodied young things. Powerful female politicians did as well, although they tended to be a lot more discreet about it.

Carmichael reached for the half-empty bottle of Montrachet in the ice bucket next to the bed and filled their two glasses. As she handed the sandy-haired twenty-five-year-old his wine, she said, “Tell me about work.”

Brian Turner knew it was part of the deal, but just once he wished they could talk about something else. “I have a friend who keeps a sailboat on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake who said I could use it any time I wanted, “He said, changing the subject. “How about this weekend?”

“Brian, you know I’m not a big fan of boats,” replied the senator.

“That doesn’t matter. It’s supposed to rain anyway. We’ll just keep it in the slip and stay below deck. There’s a DVD player on board. We can rent a bunch of movies and stock up at Dean amp; DeLuca on the way. We’ll get those lobster rolls you like so much. I’ll bring along a case of wine. It’ll be perfect.”

For a moment, Carmichael was tempted. She couldn’t remember the last time she had dropped everything to run off on a carefree, romantic weekend. There might have been one or two in the beginning of her marriage, but that was so long ago she couldn’t really be sure if they’d happened or if she was just inventing them in her mind to make herself feel better.

She stared at Brian Turner’s tan, firm body lying on top of the crisp Frette linens and tried to figure out a way to clear her schedule, but it was impossible. There were too many important things going on. She needed to see and be seen around town, especially as she moved to get her committee’s investigation of the al-Jazeera incident off the ground. “I can’t, Brian,” she said. “I’ve got way too much on my plate right now.”

“I understand,” replied Turner, and he did. In fact, he was glad she had turned him down. He had already extended the same invitation to a much younger and more attractive congressional staff assistant, also known in DC parlance as a “staff ass,” rumored to have an insatiable appetite for wild, marathon sex. Turner was just playing Carmichael. The senator never accepted any of his “romantic” getaway overtures anyway. The thought of spending an entire weekend having to play warm and cuddly was not really his idea of a good time. Not that he found her unattractive. She was okay, but he wasn’t with her for the sex, he was with her for what she could do for his career.

Carmichael was Turner’s ticket to the big time, his ticket out of the monotonous, post-9/11 slog at the CIA. Short of spending the weekend nailing the pretty little blond staff ass from South Dakota, there was nothing Brian Turner wanted more than to go to work for Senator, and hopefully soon to be Vice President, Helen Carmichael.

He was ruminating on the perversions the staffer was said to be fond of when Carmichael began nudging him about work again. “What’s going on at Langley?” she asked. “What are you hearing about the al-Jazeera footage?”

“Seeing is more like it,” said Turner, who, somewhat relieved that the intimacy portion of the evening had come to a close, slid his feet over the side of the bed and walked to his desk.

The senator watched him walk. His body was a testimony to youthful strength and vigor. She looked down at her own body and was proud of what she saw. She worked out regularly and had the body of a woman at least fifteen years younger. She especially liked the piercing Brian had talked her into getting. They both wore matching, stainless steel studs-the senator in her navel and Brian Turner through the head of his penis in what was known as a Prince Albert. It was a reminder to Carmichael of her secret indulgences, and she liked to discreetly finger the stud while surrounded by other important DC figures-people who would never even guess at the double life she led.

In a moment of concern, Turner had asked the senator what her husband might say if he ever saw her piercing, but Carmichael had set his mind right at ease by telling him that her husband hadn’t seen her naked in years.

Turner returned to bed carrying a file folder. He tucked a pencil behind his ear and brushed the hair away from his forehead. “I asked one of the DOD liaisons at the agency to review the footage.”

“And?” asked Carmichael.

“And same as you, the first thing he noticed was that the uniform the American soldier was wearing-”

“Didn’t have any insignias other than the U.S. flag,” said Carmichael, finishing the young man’s sentence for him.

“Exactly.”

“Which means the soldier was probably operating in some semi-covert capacity, maybe on one of the Special Operations Command’s direct action teams.”

“Right again,” said Turner.

“Do you know who he is?”

Turner smiled. “Nobody, it seems, wants to help hang this guy. I had to be very careful who I talked to and what information I pulled. He’s very highly thought of-kind of a hero in intelligence circles.”

“Quit dragging this out,” purred Carmichael as she grabbed the file folder away from him.

The young man watched as the senator pored over the pages, a smile curling the edges of her mouth.

“This is incredible,” she whispered as she continued to read. Toward the end of the dossier, she concluded, “This is beyond good, Brian. This guy is the president’s goddamn golden boy.”

Turner smiled again. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I more than appreciate it. This is the find of the decade.”

“His résumé is pretty lengthy. For some reason, he doesn’t seem to stay in one place too long. He served on both Navy SEAL Teams Two and Six, before the Secret Service hired him to come work at the White House. While he was there, he knocked one out of the park by rescuing the president during that whole kidnapping thing in Park City, Utah. That’s the move that earned him all his cachet around town. Shortly after that, he linked up with the CIA and started doing occasional assignments with members of the Special Operations Group. One involved a hijacking and the dismantling of the Abu Nidal terrorist organization, and another involved the Russians and the suitcase nukes they were threatening to detonate here.”

“He seems to be behind a lot of the president’s successes.”

“He does,” agreed Turner, “but then all of a sudden he got dumped over at the Department of Homeland Security. He’s now working in some innocuous police and intelligence liaison unit called the Office of International Investigative Assistance.”

Carmichael closed the folder and tapped it against her chin for several moments. “Something tells me we’re going to find that the Office of International Investigative Assistance is anything but innocuous and that our new friend is up to a lot more than just liaising with police and intelligence people.”

“Where are you going?” asked Turner, as the senator slid out of bed and began getting dressed. “I thought we were going to spend the evening together.”

“I can’t. Not now. There’s much too much to be done. But I want you,” said Carmichael as she bent down and gave Brian a deep kiss, “to sleep like an angel tonight. You deserve it. I also want you well rested, because I’ll probably need you in the morning. Keep an eye on your hotmail account. If we need to talk, I’ll send you a message, and then we’ll use the Breast Cancer Forum chat room like before.”

Before Brian Turner could respond, the senator was out the apartment door and on her way down to the lobby.

The moment she stepped outside, Carmichael pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed her assistant’s home number.

“Hello?” said an obviously tired voice on the other end of the line.

“Neal, it’s Helen. I want you in the office in twenty minutes. As soon as you get there, start pulling everything you can on an ex-Navy SEAL who used to work Secret Service at the White House and is now over at DHS named Scot Harvath. I want you to dig as deep as you can. Get my black Rolodex out of the safe and start calling in favors. We need to know everything about this guy, especially what he’s been involved with since he began working at the White House a couple years ago. Am I clear? Do you have all that?”

“Yes, Senator,” said the assistant, who was now wide awake.

“Good,” replied Carmichael. “You’ve now got eighteen minutes to get yourself into the office. Get moving. I want to make the morning news cycle.”