Operation Southern Cross - 02 (13 page)

“I don’t know,” Weir replied. “As you’re aware, their ‘thing’ is to go into the target country and hide—and not let
anyone
know where they are, exactly. Not even us. They’re supposed to melt right into the background.”

“Can you contact them?”

Weir shrugged. “I’ve been trying to, but because of the Galaxy Net situation, my S2S phone doesn’t work, and we have no back-up means of communication. Those were the security parameters of the mission—all communications had to be done on the Galaxy Net, even though it was getting goofy at the time.”

“And obviously, XBat hasn’t called you?” Bunch said.

Weir shook his head again. “These guys are a total immersion unit, just like SEALs or Force Recon or the Rangers, except they have helicopters. Again, for security reasons, they’re trained not to call us, unless something major has happened. But there’s also a chance they can’t get through to us, just like we can’t get through to them.”

Bunch’s already pasty face turned another shade of pale.

“Well, what the hell are they doing down there?” he asked harshly. “You know we also have reports they might have attacked a Venezuelan navy ship in international waters too? They knew the global situation going in, didn’t they? They knew they were supposed to lay low. Now, they must have lost their minds—it’s the only explanation I can come up with. I mean, God damn—are these guys going to start bombing the oil refineries down there next?”

The question stunned Weir. Such an action could cause a worldwide economic panic. But XBat was suddenly so far off the reservation, he didn’t know what they were capable of.

He told Bunch bluntly: “Their methods
are
a bit unorthodox. But as far as what’s in their minds right now, I have no idea. And as of this moment, because of this Galaxy Net thing, there is absolutely no way I can find out.”

Bunch put his head back into his hands. “This Galaxy Net thing was just a nuisance before,” he said. “But now it’s becoming dangerous—not just here, but with all our stuff around the world.”

“Does anyone know what the hell is causing it?” Weir asked him. “I mean the thing cost billions—and it’s practically brand new.”

Bunch rubbed his tired eyes. Like Weir, he hadn’t slept in days.

“Well, yes, actually they
do
know what’s wrong with it,” he surprised Weir by saying. “They just found out, in fact. Someone is shooting a laser beam at the Galaxy Net satellites. They’re picking off key orbiters, and whenever they do, it crashes the whole system.”

Weir laughed. He thought Bunch was joking. “You’re kidding, right?”

But Bunch shook his head. “Sound too much like a James Bond movie?”

“Yes,” Weir replied. “A bad one.”

“Well, bad script or not,” Bunch said, “that’s what’s happening. No one knows where the laser beam is coming from. No one knows who’s behind it. But the fact is, with all the crap going down in the Middle East, the Persian Gulf, Afghanistan, North Korea, whoever is pulling our chains on this one is really doing a good job.”

“Do you suspect the Venezuelans?” Weir asked him urgently. “Using technology they imported from their friends in Asia or Europe?”

Bunch shook his head. “We know it’s
not
them,” he said. “Or at least they’re not doing it anywhere near Venezuela. The big brains at NSA believe the laser is being shot at the satellites as they are coming out of their polar orbits, and the effects don’t happen right away. But for reasons beyond me, they don’t know which end of the Earth they’re talking about. North Pole, South Pole—take your pick.”

Up to this time, Weir thought the trouble with the Galaxy Net was no more than a glitch in the software or something. But a mystery laser beam, being operated by people unknown, from a location unknown?

“So until we figure this out,” Bunch went on, “these fuckups are going to keep happening and will probably get worse. I don’t have to tell you what disasters might result if we have to shut down the entire system, but that’s a possibility. We’re totally dependent on this thing, but suffice it to say, no satellite video feeds means we’re essentially blind. And no S2S phones means we’re deaf and dumb too.”

Bunch began rubbing his eyes very hard. “And what
all that
means is, you’ve got to get creative damn quick, my friend,” he told Weir sternly. “You’ve got to find a way to get a coherent message to XBat somehow and tell them to knock it off and get the hell out of there. I don’t care what their reasons are. Right now, I’m putting them down as trigger-happy speed freaks who can expect a court martial when they get back. Now, I don’t have to reiterate all the bullshit that’s going on around the world. But I’ve been talking with our Venezuela desk up at Langley—and they’re having kittens up there over this. If you don’t get through to these copter jocks soon, these analysts say, with the situation inside that shitty little country right now, there’s no telling what those nutty Venezuelans will do…”

Bunch let his words trail off. Weir felt a chill go down his back. It seemed like the dark little room was beginning to spin.

“Like, what?” Weir asked him. “What’s the worst case scenario?”

Bunch thought a moment, then replied: “How many political-psychology classes did you take at Harvard?”

Weir shrugged. “All of them, why?”

“Do you recall a lecture titled ‘Stumbling Toward Conflict’?”

He shrugged again. “Maybe not.”

“It has to do with some of the stupid reasons nations go to war,” Bunch explained. “And that’s where these analysts up at Langley are coming from. Beyond the usual stuff like direct attack, undermining economic interests, taking another’s territory by force, it’s not uncommon for some countries to start preparing for a war they have no intention of ever going through with. They usually do this for internal reasons, or to satiate their homegrown defense industries. But what
is
strange is that the more tenuous the motivation to go to war seems to be, the more irresistible the urge to not just build and build and build for a conflict, but to actually
accelerate
the process, usually beyond all control. Before they know it, they’re riding high, with all these new weapons and feeling like their balls are made of gold, and just looking for trouble. But then, when the first real crisis comes up, no one knows what the hell to do. They’ve never been down this road before. The leadership usually faints, radical factions fill the vacuum, and soon enough, the lunatics are running the asylum. After that, it takes very little to push the whole thing over the edge. One little spark, and the country winds up going to war even though it’s the last thing they wanted to do. They’ve stumbled into it…

“I just hope your helicopter friends haven’t handed them that spark—because if they have…”

Bunch’s words were suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door. Weir nearly went through the ceiling, it startled him so much. A young Air Force officer stepped in and handed a yellow slip of paper to Bunch. “This just came for you, sir—by secure fax from Washington. It’s an intercept from the State Department diplomatic room.”

Bunch read the message—and nearly broke up laughing.

“Are you
sure
this thing is on the level?” he asked the officer.

The officer nodded. “It all checks out,” he said. “The Caracas time stamp is legit. The State Department considers the contents authentic.”

“But it says it’s from the lowest possible diplomatic channel in Venezuela,” Bunch told him.

The officer just shrugged. “Washington seems to know that, sir,” he said. “But they’re convinced it’s real.”

Bunch saluted the man away. All this time, Weir knew this couldn’t be good. Yellow paper usually meant trouble in the world of black ops.

Bunch’s pale face had now turned dark. “I hope you were taking notes just now, Mr. Weir,” he said. “On how countries can stumble toward conflict? Because thanks to your friends in XBat, we’ve just been handed a textbook example of it, direct from the presidential palace in Caracas.”

He handed the yellow slip of paper to Weir.

The message contained just one sentence: “Because of actions taken against it earlier this day, Venezuela hereby declares war on the United States.”

MOLLY OWENS WAS TEN YEARS OLD. SHE WAS THE
daughter of Henry Owens III, a U.S. diplomat living with his family in Caracas. After Venezuela recalled its ambassador to the United States a few months earlier, prompting Washington to do the same, Owens became the highest ranking U.S. diplomat inside the volatile South American country. It was an unexpected job he did not relish.

He was attached to an AFTRA agricultural commission, and because it was still being funded, he was still in the country. He knew very little about the day-to-day politics in Caracas. He had no friends inside the current Venezuelan administration, no contacts within the Venezuelan military. Nevertheless, he was handed this top diplomat position by default, and for the honor, the Venezuelan secret police had been tailing him 24/7 for the past month. There was a good chance his home was bugged, and he was sure his land line, cell phone and computer were being tapped. He rarely used any of them.

That’s how his young daughter became the most unlikely player in the growing South American crisis.

Owens and his family lived in one of the many towering apartment buildings in downtown Caracas—just a few blocks away from the late Colonel Grazi’s penthouse of iniquity. Molly used to go to the American school nearby, but with the rising tensions, her parents decided to start home schooling her themselves. Owens worked from home; his wife, a reporter for a travel magazine, maintained an office one floor down from their apartment. These days, they rarely left their building. They had all their bags packed, and Owens was praying that any minute, he’d get the call and they could all go home.

It was now nine in the morning and having consumed her usual bowl of Cocoa Puffs, Molly was in her room, at her computer, beginning her home lessons. She’d been allowed to have one e-mail friend while abroad, a classmate from when the family lived in Washington, D.C. Molly exchanged dozens of e-mails with this friend every day. But except for these messages, and the occasional spam, nothing of any consequence ever found its way to Molly’s e-mail in-box.

Until today.

The strange e-mail announced itself by a pop-up window Molly had never seen before. Within it was the title: “Important message for Molly.” Although she had been told by her parents not to open any mail unless she recognized the sender, Molly opened it anyway.

The e-mail contained only one line: “Molly—bring your father to the computer immediately.”

It was signed, “The President of the United States.”

Molly knew what her father did for a living. She also knew that Venezuela was not being friendly to the United States these days. Though she might get in trouble for opening an e-mail she shouldn’t have, she decided to tell her father about the strange message.

Five minutes later, Owens himself was sitting in his daughter’s tiny chair, typing away on her pink, Barbie-doll-decorated computer. In a flash message, the person on the other end identified himself as Gary Weir. He sent Owens the U.S. diplomatic services’ codes for the day to prove his credibility. Then he explained that just as Owens suspected, the Venezuelan secret police probably had Owens’ phones and computer tapped—and his quarters bugged as well. Molly’s computer was the only place left for them to converse safely.

Weir instructed Owens to go to an obscure chat room frequented by Brazilian rubber-fetish aficionados. It was here, after locking themselves in a private room, that the two men were able to have a confidential conversation.

Weir identified himself as a CIA agent, and as succinctly as possible, typed out the current situation to Owens, starting with the Galaxy Net problems, the strange movements of ships carrying unknown cargo into Venezuela and the Bear bomber theory.

Next, Weir sent a short history of who and what XBat was, explaining that the airborne unit’s specialty was stealing into an unsuspecting country and virtually disappearing overnight. He revealed that XBat had been sent into Venezuela not forty-eight hours before to quietly check out the situations he’d mentioned above.

Then, picking his words carefully, Weir told Owens that XBat had been anything but quiet. He recounted the recent destruction of Legos air base, the Venezuelan frigate and the four other targets. He was up front with the diplomat: The CIA had no idea why XBat was doing these things, no theories on why they were acting this way, especially after being ordered to keep a low profile. Weir added that sometimes Special Ops groups got a little too hopped up in their efforts to stay awake, but as far as XBat activities were concerned, it was a total mystery right now. Their elite quality to operate independently, under the hostile nation’s nose, was admirable. But at the moment, it was creating an extremely dangerous situation, including a message from Caracas, through very low diplomatic channels, that claimed Venezuela had already declared war on the United States. Weir said that everyone from the president on down was hoping this was just a rant, something fired off in anger after these unexplained XBat attacks. But the bottom line was, Special Operations Command had to talk to XBat immediately.

It’s critically important that we contact these people
, Weir typed to Owens.

Owens replied:
How can I help?
He thought the CIA wanted him to carry a message to someone under cover in the Venezuelan government, a simple courier mission, something he’d done in the past.

That’s when Weir dropped the bombshell: SOC wanted Owens himself to find XBat and tell them to call home.

The diplomat was bewildered. He read Weir’s message over three times. He was in agri-business. He didn’t want to get involved in this. He began typing frantically:
But how can I find them if you can’t?

Weir typed in reply:
XBat’s exact location is unknown. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have an idea where they might be.

That’s when Weir asked Owens the strangest question of all:
Do you have any experience climbing mountains?

SERGEANTS BRIAN JORDAN AND JEFF BLUM WERE
guards at the British embassy in Caracas. Located in a large white building on Raul Boulevard, it was not far from the main presidential palace.

The two soldiers spent most of their days stationed just inside the front door of the subdued embassy building. They used electronic wands to scan visitors for weapons. They also checked passports of British nationals who had business in the embassy. It made for a long, boring day—especially since Jordan and Blum weren’t ordinary soldiers, but members of the Special Air Service, the famous SAS, Britain’s version of the U.S. Green Berets.

The two soldiers were specialists in antiterrorism tactics. They’d quietly been moved into the country about a month before, when it looked like things were getting tense in the northern half of South America. Their real function was to coordinate an evacuation of the embassy should one have to be undertaken on short notice. Helicopters would arrive on the roof for quick flights out to the island of St. George in the Lesser Antilles.

So, it was unusual that they got a call in the middle of their breakfast tea; it was from their boss, the ambassador himself. He ordered the men to grab their weapons, some scaling gear and two Union Jacks, and report to the backdoor of the embassy in five minutes.

“A friend needs our help,” had been the only explanation offered to them.

A WHITE LAND ROVER DROVE UP TO THE EMBASSY’S
backdoor five minutes later.

George Owens was behind the wheel. The two SAS members recognized him right away; Owens had been a frequent guest at the British embassy’s weekly cocktail parties and sometimes played poker with the staff once most of the guests had gone home.

Owens put his finger to his lips. The SAS men got the message. They said nothing, but simply loaded their mountain-climbing gear into the back of the Land Rover and climbed in. As they did this, two VAF jets went low over the capital, shaking buildings and windows for blocks.

Owens put the car in gear and started out of the alley. It was widely known that the Venezuelan secret police had some parts of Caracas itself bugged, especially around the foreign embassies, using line of sight eavesdropping equipment, technology that could pick up conversations on the street, in open cafés and inside vehicles. So Owens and the soldiers would maintain their silence until they were out of the downtown section. Or at least, that’s what they hoped.

In front of them now—on Raul Boulevard—they saw mobs of Venezuelan citizens, still on the streets after another wild night of demonstrating and rioting. Owens had encountered smaller crowds on his way over to the embassy, but nothing like this. Many of these people were armed with pipes, knives and machetes, and they looked like they were out for blood. There was no way Owens was going to drive through them, so he put the Rover in reverse and began backing out of the alley the way he had come in.

But no sooner had Owens reached the other end of the alley when a black military jeep roared out of nowhere and came to a screeching halt behind him, blocking his way out. Owens hit the brakes so hard, the SAS man in the back seat nearly went through the rear window.

Black uniformed soldiers jumped out of the jeep, and in two seconds the Land Rover was surrounded. A man in plainclothes stepped out of the jeep and walked over to the driver’s side. Owens rolled down the window.

“Please get out of the car,” the man said to Owens in a thick Spanish accent.

“What for?” Owens asked as innocently as he could.

“Police business,” was the man’s harsh reply. He had a long scar running from the left side of his forehead all the way down to his lower right cheek.

Owens pulled out his diplomatic pass and showed it to the man. Scarface was not impressed with his “Agri” credentials. Owens began spitting out legal jargon, essentially telling the man that he was protected by diplomatic immunity and that neither he nor his soldiers had any authority over them.

But again, the scarred man wasn’t hearing any of it.

“Our nations are in a state of war,” he growled at Owens.

To Owens’ surprise, the man pulled out a document, written in both English and Spanish, stating that same declaration under the Venezuelan presidential seal. Owens had seen similar documents before. This one looked legitimate, or at the very least, would have been hard to counterfeit. What Weir had told him about the “rant” that had come over the low diplomatic channel now seemed very serious.

“So all that diplomatic immunity goes right out the window,” the man said to Owens. “Now, please, get out of the car. You
have
to come with us.”

Owens just stared back at him. He’d been a diplomat for almost twenty years. By the nature of the job, he’d been in some uncomfortable spots before. He’d always managed to keep his head, show some reserve and work his way out of them; but in that moment, looking into this man’s black eyes, he knew that if he went with him, he’d never see his wife or Molly again. He couldn’t let this happen.

But how could they escape eight heavily armed soldiers? To be shot down in the dirty Caracas street would be no big deal. It was something that happened here every day.

That’s when his friends came through. It was Blum, the SAS man in the back seat, who acted first. In his plainclothes he didn’t look any more extraordinary than a carpet sweeper, but of course, that was one of his talents. He moved so swiftly now, Owens had a hard time believing it was real.

Suddenly the largest handgun Owens had ever seen appeared from the back seat. At the same moment, Jordan, the SAS man sitting beside Owens, reached across him, grabbed Scarface by the back of the head and pulled him into the car in such a way, the massive pistol was pointing right between the man’s eyes.

“We’re going fishing here, mate,” Blum said to Scarface, pushing the gun into his bushy brow. “And if we don’t get moving soon, well, now all the fish will be gone. Do you understand?”

Scarface could barely talk. “
Si
,” was all he managed to blurt out.

“That’s a smart boy,” the SAS man replied. “A few fish not worth getting your head blown off, are they?”

Scarface was a half second away from wetting himself. Owens had tried to get out of the way as best he could. Still, he was practically eyeball to eyeball with the Venezuelan police official, who looked ready to cry.

“Can you have your friends move, please?” Owens asked him.

Scarface began waving his hands frantically. The soldiers quickly retreated back to their vehicle.

Owens started the Land Rover creeping backward again, out onto the side street behind the embassy, forcing his would-be captor to dance along with him. Only when he was sure that he could hit the gas and go did the SAS men loosen their grip on the police official. The man fell backward, landing on his ass in the middle of the asphalt. Owens floored the accelerator and off they went.

They roared out of the side street and onto a two-lane highway that ran parallel to Raul Boulevard. That thoroughfare was still filled with angry protesters. The highway too was crowded—with cars. Owens’ upbringing as a typical Massachusetts driver served him well as he weaved in and out of the heavy traffic.

It took them about five minutes of wild driving before the SAS men could look back with certainty and know the military vehicle was not following them.

“We lost the buggers, I think,” Blum said, still peering out of the rear window. “Breathe easy, everyone.”

But Owens was concerned. If the SBI had targeted him and failed, he wondered if his family might be next.

Sergeant Jordan seemed to read his thoughts.

“Don’t worry, mate,” he said to Owens. “Once we wrap up what we’ve got to do today, we can all get out of this piss-poor country—you and your family included.”