The Cloud Collector (43 page)

‘And tomorrow's November fourth,' said David Monkton.

‘That's when they'll attack,' declared Sally.

 

44

Sally said she'd sleep that night at her service apartment, and Irvine didn't try to dissuade her, neither wanting tension they couldn't prevent from being a barrier between them. Although there'd been no prior arrangement, Sally detoured to the embassy on her way from Langley. David Monkton was still at Thames House.

Sally said, ‘I wanted to thank you for today.'

‘You absolutely sure the attack will be tomorrow?'

‘As sure as I can be.'

‘But not absolutely?'

‘Can we ever be?'

‘Graham called. Told me about the FBI business.'

‘It didn't get in the way.' Should she tell him about the strange warning from Nigel Fellowes of being personally targeted? No, she decided. That hadn't gotten in the way, either: nothing more than Fellowes's posturing at being left out. Too much had been in the way if he
had
been involved.

‘You got any idea about tomorrow?'

‘It'll obviously have to synchronize with the eight-hour time difference between Nevada and Lincolnshire.'

‘Which end of whose day?'

‘Evening of November fourth in England, I'm guessing,' said Sally. ‘Although that
is
a guess: America's the Great Satan, where they'll want to make the headlines and get the television coverage. And the most damage, of course.'

‘That's sensible reasoning.'

‘There's no point now in the military hiding away.'

‘They're not going to,' disclosed Monkton. ‘They're moving in overnight, at Creech and Waddington. Men and armour as well as aerial cover. It's going to be a suicide attack.'

‘Which they'll know: expect. And which I don't understand—can't even guess—and not being able to do either worries the hell out of me.'

‘You're starting to speak like an American,' mocked Monkton.

‘But still thinking like a surrogate Arab.' I hope, she thought.

*   *   *

Sally hadn't expected to sleep, conscious that the televised conference feed was opening at one minute past November 3 midnight—eight hours earlier on America's West Coast to maintain the synchronicity—but she had, dreamlessly. By six she was on her way to Langley, sure she'd guessed correctly that the assault would be during Waddington's evening or night, Creech's November 4 day. She decided against suggesting her reasoning as she entered the room in which she expected to spend most of the day. She'd told Monkton it was up to him to pass it on.

The command teams had changed locations at Creech and Waddington, both now relaying from operational rooms against wall-mounted, aerial, blown-up photographs and maps of the respective installations. Each room also had a large, central ops table with scale models of both stations. Low-voiced operational staff tried to appear occupied in both, but neither the Creech commander nor the Waddington wing commanders were there.

They hadn't fixed a meeting time at Langley, but Sally was surprised Jack Irvine wasn't there. Conrad Graham came into the room at ten and said, ‘Hi,' his concentration on the ops-room screens.

Coming back to her but nodding back towards the pictures, Graham said, ‘I think I saw the movie.'

And you're going to be in the sequel, anticipated Sally. ‘It might be a long day.'

Graham looked fresh and alert, showing no alcohol fatigue. ‘A television feed was put in overnight to the White House Situation Room.'

Graham would
definitely
be in the movie, decided Sally. ‘Has the president been told what's already been lost from Creech?'

Graham nodded. ‘Sure as hell glad it wasn't me who had to be the messenger. A second examination's discovered there's even more gone than we were told yesterday.'

Could that be what was delaying Irvine? Sally wondered. ‘You heard from Jack?'

‘He's staying in touch with Meade for any fresh intercepts. He says there should have been some more reaction to our knowing of Smartman's penetration by now.' Graham looked back to the television. ‘How long do you really think this day's going to be?'

Sally decided against leaving Monkton to spell out the time variations between Waddington and Creech. ‘The attacks have to be simultaneous, but the eight-hour time difference between Creech and Waddington has to be allowed for. It won't be until England's afternoon: maybe even in the evening.'

‘No reason to hang around here, then?' said Graham.

There wasn't, Sally accepted. There might still be something more she hadn't recognized in the already-intercepted Hydarnes transmissions.

*   *   *

But there wasn't, and by Creech's noon—8:00 p.m. on November 4 at Waddington—Sally's concentration was flagging. Conrad Graham was already there when she got back. So was Irvine. He would have walked right past her office, she realized. But the door had been closed and he wouldn't have expected her to be there.

He smiled. ‘There's nothing new. No claims on any Middle East outlet, either. It doesn't make sense.'

‘That's the play, isn't it? We're not supposed to understand it.'

Beyond Irvine, Graham looked at his watch and said, ‘In England it's already—'

‘Eight thirty at night. I know.' On the live video feed Sally saw that all of yesterday's participants were in their seats and wished she'd returned earlier. Monkton didn't acknowledge her arrival.

‘Perimeter checks are routine; we've just completed the fifth. There's nothing—no-one—around,' said one of the Waddington wing commanders.

‘Our airborne helos aren't seeing anything, either,' picked up the Creech commander sardonically. ‘The high-altitude surveillance plane says the surf's good on Venice Beach, but there's nothing much happening between there and us.'

Conrad Graham shifted in his seat and immediately shifted back to how he had been sitting, looking at his watch again. David Monkton was looking directly at her, his face as expressionless as his voice usually was. Sally hoped her face was just as blank. From the wall-mounted clock behind the MI5 chief, Sally saw it was nine fifteen.

Graham got as far as ‘I think—' before an alarm light burst red next to the wall map in the Waddington ops room and a metallic Tannoy voice said, ‘We've just been hit! There's burning, a fire—!' A Klaxon blared.

As it did in the Creech command room. Telephones rang and the Tannoy voice said, ‘We're under fire—! Two explosions by the control tower … there's another!'

The commander grabbed the base loudspeaker pod, shouting over the erupting noise, ‘Where? How many? I need a situation report … someone tell me where they're coming from!'

‘I don't know! I can't see any attackers … just strikes,' said an unidentified woman.

‘It's a UAV,' intruded an astonished English voice.

‘What the hell's a UAV!' demanded someone.

‘Unmanned aerial vehicle … a drone … a miniature goddamned … a drone,' came a reply.

‘They're hitting us with drones!' said an incredulous voice.

Mosquitoes that could sting a lion's eye! thought Sally at once; al Aswamy was attacking with remotely controlled drones, still mocking them.

The Tannoys became over-amplified, building up echoing noise in the operations rooms, where an even higher, yelling cacophony could be heard over it. Sally isolated the American commander demanding outside vision, and suddenly on a television screen next to the map display a live picture appeared of a section of the base. And with it a picture of a crumpled but still identifiable helicopter about the size of a car tire that she'd seen being flown by children in London's Hyde and St James's Parks, easily controlled and flown from cell phones that hadn't then needed the GPS directional guide that those she was seeing now had required. The helicopter was visibly scorched by whatever improved explosive device had been carried on it. As her eyes focused more intently, she picked out miniature wrecks littered around the ground. Some were lodged in the buildings they had set alight. Groups of firefighters, dragging hoses, were dousing buildings as they ran between them, hindered by larger squads of fully kitted, bewildered soldiers seeking unseen enemies.

There was a babble of confused, conflicting shouts and demands, too. ‘Can't shoot the fucking things down … came in under the radar … Jesus H. Christ, what a mess … fire trucks, need fire trucks … beat them with our own helicopters … fly over them, take them out with our downdrafts … blow them off course … drive them down … helicopters have got to fan out, find the sons of bitches who're operating them … got three … we've detained three guys … laughing … they're laughing at us!'

Mocking them! Sally thought again. Irvine tried to pull away from Sally snatching at him for attention, and when he finally looked away from the screen, she reached farther across to grab at Graham.

‘What's a cloud?' she demanded. ‘In computer-speak but in my language, what's a cloud!'

‘In your language, where computer data's held, stored,' said Irvine, still trying to pull away.

Tugging again at Graham, Sally demanded, ‘That extra material from the commander's computer we didn't know about yesterday? Was it the storage location for Creech's past computer traffic, maybe even future planning … tactics?'

‘I don't know.' The man frowned.

It took almost thirty minutes to reach the Creech operations room, only finally succeeding by telephone because they weren't responding to their conference voice link.

‘I haven't time!' the commander yelled at the executive officer relaying Sally's demand to talk.

‘Tell him this isn't the attack. This is a decoy!'

‘What?' demanded the man, finally coming to her.

‘You and Waddington aren't the real targets. You're decoys. They're going to attack your computer storage.'

‘How did you know?' asked Irvine fifteen minutes later, when the first confirmation came of the ground assault by a twenty-strong terrorist group upon the storage facility at Ellsworth Air Force Base near Rapid City, South Dakota.

‘“A promise is a cloud. Fulfillment is the rain,”' quoted Sally. ‘The last of Kermani's intercept: his attack instructions.'

*   *   *

A total of 350 cell-controlled, GPS-guided mini-helicopters—aerial platforms—were launched against the Creech and Waddington air bases. All were commercially purchased, either in toy stores or online. They were all eight-rotored—like their military drone equivalent used for surveillance and reconnaissance—with a flying capacity of just over seven miles. The adaptation to carry the IED incendiaries—a lot made from chemical fertilizer—was minimal, as was the majority of the damage. A bicycle storage shed and half a latrine block at Waddington were burned out, and the fire caved in the roof of a sports hall at Creech.

The firefight at Ellsworth Air Force Base caused much more damage because the attackers penetrated the outbuildings of the bunker—the
cloud
in Internet parlance—of the Creech computer traffic. There were no life-threatening American casualties, but eight of the attackers were killed. One of them was a still-bearded Ismail al Aswamy.

The initial celebrations that night were limited to the three of them. Conrad Graham invited them to his suite, where the alcohol choice extended well beyond bourbon, even to wine for Sally. Graham toasted her and said she'd done a hell of a job, and Sally pointed out that the death of al Aswamy didn't mark the end of jihad terrorism. Irvine said it was inevitable that Vevak would take down their Hydarnes site, but they'd get another access in time. They stretched to a second round of drinks—although Sally declined because the wine was sweet—and managed to escape after another half an hour.

Sally left her car to ride home with Irvine. Neither spoke until they were crossing the Key Bridge. Then Irvine said, ‘It is over as far as you're concerned here, isn't it?'

‘I don't know,' avoided Sally. ‘I haven't spoken to Monkton yet.'

‘It will be.'

‘It always had to end, didn't it?'

‘I don't want it to.'

‘I don't want to talk about it tonight.'

‘Tomorrow then.'

‘Tomorrow,' agreed Sally, to end the conversation.

The difficulty had evaporated by the time they reached Owen Place. There was no talk of food, of anything. They walked, unspeaking, directly to the bedroom and came together as if angry, Irvine ripping her shirt as he pulled it off. There was no foreplay and they started to make love still angrily but then locked, in frozen fear, as the apartment door crashed open and noise and running feet and men hustled in.

The light went on as the bedroom door burst open, with them both still joined.

‘You've got every reason to hate us for doing this, buddy, but it's for your own good,' said the man at the bedroom door. ‘Sorry to you, too, lady.'

 

45

Conrad Graham obviously hadn't left Langley after them. He had a bourbon blush but no slur when he asked Sally how she'd torn her shirt. It was the only thing Graham said—refusing all their shouted demands as Sally had refused his—before handing them first-edition copies of that day's
Washington Post
.

Jack Irvine was instantly identifiable from the four-column, five-inch-deep photograph that accompanied the story headlined ‘NSA Spycatcher Defeats Al Qaeda Jihad.' Sally's image was far less clear. Her body was half hidden behind his, and her face was partially obscured by a hand gesture he'd been making when the picture had been snatched of their leaving Owen Place together sometime over the previous week.