Deep Black (2 page)

The copilot shouted so loudly Martin could hear him through the bulkhead.

“Missiles! Missiles! Jesus!”

The next thing Martin heard was a deep, low rattle that traveled through the floor and up into his seat. He felt cold grip
his shoulders but had enough presence of mind to issue a command to the computer.

“Command: Contingency D. Authorization Alpha Moyshik Moyshik. Destruct. Cleo—”

Cleo was not part of command sequence; it was the name of his six-year-old daughter, whom he’d lost to his wife after their
divorce five years ago. It was also the last word he spoke before a second missile struck Dashik R7—aka NSA Wave Three Magnetic
Data Gatherer Asset 1—and ignited the fuel tank in the right wing. In the next second, the aircraft flared into a bright meteor
in the dark Siberian night.

2

William Rubens pushed his hands slowly out from his sides as the two men in black ninja uniforms approached. Palms upward,
he looked a little like an angel supplicating heaven; he waited patiently while one of them took a small device from his belt
and waved it over Rubens’ body. About the size and shape of a flashlight, the device scanned Rubens’ clothes for circuits
that might be used to defeat the next array of sensors, which were positioned in a narrow archway a few feet away. Satisfied
that he carried nothing electronic, not even a watch, the ninjas nodded, and Rubens stepped forward through the detector.

The fact that Rubens had led the team that developed both the archway and the circuitry detectors did not exempt him from
a thorough check, nor did the fact that, as the head of National Security Agency’s Combined Service Direct Operations Division—called
simply Desk Three—Rubens was the number two man at the agency. If anything, it made the men work harder. The ninjas, as part
of the NSA’s Security Division, ultimately worked for him. Anyone leaving Black Chamber—the massive multilevel subbasement
facility bureaucratically known as Headquarters/Operations Building National Security Operational Control Center Secure Ultra
Command, or OPS 2/B Level Black—was subject to a mandatory search. Had Rubens not been searched, these ninjas would have been
summarily fired—after serving a one-year sentence in the NSA detention center for dereliction of duty.

Cleared, Rubens continued from the basement levels of OPS 2 upstairs into the main operations building (known as OPS 2/A or
just OPS 2), ran another gauntlet of security checks, and finally emerged outside where a Chevrolet Malibu waited to take
him to his appointment in Washington. He slid into the front seat, nodded at the aide behind the wheel—an Army MP in civilian
dress—and then leaned the seat back to rest as the driver pulled away from the curb.

Two other similarly nondescript vehicles, a panel van and a pickup truck, followed as they headed through Crypto City—known
to the outside world as Fort Meade, if known at all—to get on the Baltimore–Washington Parkway. Both carried ninjas, whose
dungarees and work shirts covered lightweight body armor; their vehicles were equipped with a variety of weapons that ranged
from handguns to a pair of shoulder-launched Stingers, though the only things they would be tempted to use this afternoon
were the M47 Dragon antitank weapons to cut through some of the traffic.

The trip from the Maryland suburbs where the NSA’s Puzzle Palace was located to the West Wing of the White House took roughly
fifty-five minutes. Rubens spent it eyes closed, head back on the rest. His mind focused on a one-syllable nonsense word a
yoga master had given him years before to conjure energy from the kundalini, a point somewhere near the lower spine that the
master believed was the center of Rubens’ personal (and potentially transcendent) soul.

By the time he arrived at the suite where the National Security Director was waiting with the president of the United States,
the thirty-two-year-old mathematical genius and art connoisseur felt rested and refreshed. He also felt he had centered his
often rambunctious energy and clamped hold of his ego.

It was a good thing.

“The Wave Three mission was not authorized by Finding 302,” said National Security Director George Hadash as Rubens entered
the Blue Room, a secure meeting room in sub level two of the building. “Losing that plane was a screwup.”

Rubens had known George Hadash since MIT, where he had been Hadash’s student in a graduate seminar on the use of science in
international relations. He was used to the blunt blasts that substituted for proper greetings. “The target was discussed,”
he told his onetime professor. “The protocol for Desk Three is that it is to operate autonomously once broad objectives are
outlined. Wave Three was the best asset for the job, and it was under our control.”

“The laser facilities were not important enough to risk that asset,” said Hadash.

“I beg to differ. Contrary to the estimate from the Air Force Special Projects Office, the weapon is near an operational state.
The CIA analysts believe it’s more advanced than our own Altrus. And there is no question that if it were operational, it
could completely eliminate our satellite network over central Asia.”

Hadash’s cheek twitched slightly, but he said nothing. The tic indicated to Rubens that he had made his point.

“We haven’t finished analyzing the data yet,” added the NSA official.

“You’re going to have to explain to the president,” said Hadash.

“Of course. If he wants to know.”

Hadash gave him one of his most serious frowns, though Rubens hadn’t intended the comment as impertinent. The issue wasn’t
plausible denial; compartmentalization was essential to successful espionage and covert action, which were Desk Three’s raison
d’eˆtre.

“He’s not happy,” added Hadash. “The CIA has been all over this, and DOD is reminding him that the NSA has
no
operational experience.”

“Not true,” said Rubens mildly. Silently congratulating himself on the earlier mention of the CIA—which would convey an open-minded
neutrality in sharp contrast to the paranoid backbiting of his bitter intelligence service rivals—he took a seat on the couch.
Hadash went to see if the president was ready to meet with him.

Both the CIA and the military had made plays to control Desk Three when it was created at the very start of President Jeffrey
Marcke’s administration. Both were disappointed that the NSA was given primacy over the operation. CIA and military assets
assigned to Desk Three, either on permanent “loan” or for temporary missions, were under Rubens’ direct command until released.
This inevitably led to jealousy. While Rubens had foreseen this, it did present an ongoing problem that a man of lesser intellect
and ability—in his humble opinion—would have had great trouble controlling.

The idea behind Desk Three was relatively simple in out-line: New technologies such as satellite communications, miniaturized
sensors, and remote-controlled vehicles could revolutionize covert action and direct warfare if used properly. The CIA, the
NSA, the Air Force, the Navy, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Army—all had expertise in specific areas but often could
not work smoothly enough to leverage that expertise. It was no secret that the different groups charged with national security
tended not to cooperate; any number of fiascoes, from the infamous
Pueblo
incident in the 1970s to the attack on the World Trade Center in 2001, could be at least partly blamed on this lack of coordination.
And at a time when advances in technology were making all sorts of things possible, coordination was essential.

Desk Three’s evolution could be traced directly to the CIA’s former Division D, which had worked with the NSA in the 1950s
and early ’60s planting sensors, stealing code-books, “turning” crypto experts—and assassinating foreigners, though this was
not necessarily an NSA function. It was succeeded by the Special Collection Service, or SCS, which had essentially the same
job, sans assassinations, which were outlawed by Congress following scandals in the 1970s. In both cases, the arrangement
had the CIA working essentially as a contractor to the NSA; the SCS headquarters was not in Crypto City, and the field agents
were never, or almost never, under direct NSA control.

Desk Three was different in that respect. It was intended to represent a new, cutting-edge force to be used for not only collecting
data but also, when the situation demanded, taking action “ad hoc” to meet objectives outlined by the president. It could
tap into the full array of sensors maintained by the NSA, as well as the processed intercepts from those sensors and data
analysis provided by all of the major intelligence agencies. It could call on its own air and space assets, including twelve
Space Platforms, or ultralarge satellites that could launch customized eavesdropping probes, and eight remote-controlled F-47C
robot planes that were arguably as capable as F-22s, with twice their range and about one-third of their size. Underwater
assets gave Desk Three similar capabilities in the ocean. And a small team of agents, drawn from a variety of sources, gave
it muscle.

Several agencies could have “run” Desk Three. Besides the CIA, the military’s USSOCOM, or U.S. Special Operations Command,
had been a lead contender. But the NSA was chosen primarily because it was used to working with the high-tech gear that formed
the backbone of the force concept. It also lacked some of the political entanglements that plagued the others.

And, of course, it contained William Rubens.

Rubens was critical for several reasons beyond his outsize abilities. One was his friendship with Hadash. Another was his
demonstrated skill at melding the disparate talents required for such an enterprise. Last but not least, he had conceived
the concept. He personally wrote the report outlining it, well before Marcke’s election. Titled “Deep Black,” the report formed
the blueprint for the operation and was still among the most highly classified documents in the government archives. The report
title had become an unofficial name for Desk Three and its operations.

Rubens had long ago learned the difficult and distasteful lesson that sheer intelligence, culture, and genetics often mattered
little in Washington, let alone in international affairs. The trick was to use these assets to maintain one’s position and
thereby accomplish one’s goals. It took eternal vigilance and, perhaps, a touch of paranoia.

Rubens cleared his mind of external distractions, preparing himself to speak to the president. The room’s spartan furnishings
made it look as if it belonged in a suburban tract house. A large video display sat behind a set of drapes where the picture
window would be; otherwise the Blue Room was refreshingly devoid of high-tech gadgetry.

The door opened so abruptly Rubens barely had time to get to his feet as the president burst into the room, his hand thrust
forward.

“Billy, how are you?” said Marcke, playing the hail-fellow- well-met politico. Marcke was an inch taller than Rubens, who
at six-four was not short; though in his early sixties, Marcke had an incredibly strong handshake and was said by the media
to work with serious weights every afternoon.

“Fine, sir.”

The president released him and sat on the couch. Hadash and the secretary of defense, Art Blanders, entered belatedly. Both
remained standing as the president leaned toward Rubens.

“How’s your boss?” asked Marcke.

“Admiral Brown is still traveling, sir.”

Vice Admiral Devlin Brown was a recent appointee to head the agency; he’d only been on the job for a few weeks. Rubens didn’t
know Brown very well yet and, frankly, didn’t feel he’d be much of a force. It would take considerable ability to outperform
the previous head of the NSA, in Rubens’ opinion—though if the opportunity presented itself, he certainly would be willing
to try.

“All right, Billy,” said the president with the air of a favored uncle. “Tell us what happened to your airplane.”

“The Ilyushin carrying the Wave Three magnetic data reader was targeted and shot down for reasons that remain unclear,” said
Rubens. “We haven’t been able to identify where the MiG came from, which has complicated matters.”

“How is that possible?” asked Blanders.

“We’re not omniscient,” said Rubens, managing a smile to keep his tone mild. The secretary had come to the administration
after serving as CEO of a bank; it was difficult to take him seriously. “More than likely, it was a renegade PVO unit working
out some sort of dispute over ‘fees.’ But the possibility that both the program and Wave Three itself have been compromised
cannot be ruled out.”

“The lasers,” prompted Hadash.

Rubens launched into a quick but detailed summary of the Wave Three target, a data center related to the Russian-directed
energy program.

“The Russian president denied there was a laser program in an interview with the BBC two weeks ago,” said Blanders.

The defense secretary was obviously interested in pushing DoD’s own laser program, but that wasn’t what motivated his comment.
Rubens noted for future reference not only Blanders’ disdain for Alexsandr Kurakin, the Russian president, but also the hint
that Blanders believed Marcke trusted Kurakin too much.

“Perhaps you should bring it up with President Kurakin when you speak with him tomorrow,” added Blanders, alluding to the
president’s biweekly telephone conference with the Russian president.

Doing that would inadvertently reveal quite a bit about the agency’s capabilities. But before Rubens could find a way to point
this out semitactfully, Marcke cut him off.

“Of course we’re not going to do that,” said the president. “Why show him our hand? The question is, will he ask about our
aircraft?”

“I don’t believe so,” said Rubens.

The Wave Three compartment was rigged to self-destruct. According to protocol, none of the crew carried parachutes, though
there was always a possibility that some had been carried anyway. Still, transmissions from the plane indicated that there
had been no survivors.

“How can you be sure?” asked Blanders.

“The plane went down in a fairly remote area,” said Rubens. “We have one possible site that we’re keeping track of, and I
have a team en route to survey it.”

“You didn’t see it on satellite?” Blanders asked.

Was that a criticism or a play for the comprehensive optical survey satellites, which would give the U.S. worldwide around-the-clock
coverage? Rubens decided to interpret it as the latter.

“At the moment, we don’t have the resources for complete coverage,” said Rubens. “That would be very desirable. We did, however,
pick up the explosion. We have data on the possible wreckage. Now we send someone there to look at it and make sure it was
destroyed. Routine.”

Hadash cleared his throat and began speaking in the slightly loud, slightly rushed tone that indicated he’d been rehearsing
what he was to say for some time. “Given the controversy—”