The Falcon and the Snowman (9 page)

Project Rhyolite (RH was the code preferred for everyday use) was one of the systems in the family of intelligence-collection satellites developed by the United States. It had been developed by TRW to eavesdrop electronically on foreign countries, especially the eastern Soviet Union, China and Soviet missile test ranges in the Pacific. It was a “bug”—much like the listening devices detectives plant on telephones to eavesdrop on private conversations—except that it was a listening device on the missile-launching tests of the two countries and on their telecommunications system—and on several other nations whose communications traffic the United States might want to monitor.

Chris was to learn that each satellite carried a battery of antennas capable of sucking foreign microwave signals from out of space like a vacuum cleaner picking up specks of dust from a carpet: American intelligence agents could monitor Communist microwave radio and long-distance telephone traffic over much of the European landmass, eavesdropping on a Soviet commissar in Moscow talking to his mistress in Yalta or on a general talking to his lieutenants across the great continent; a computer was programmed to hunt electronically for certain key words or phrases of special interest to U.S. agents, who could use the satellite to pinpoint Soviet and Chinese defense radar systems and learn the frequencies, pulse rate and other specifications of the radar systems that would be vital if the United States ever wanted to jam the transmitters during a war; and equally important, the satellites provided the means to monitor tests of the latest Communist ballistic missiles, including the newest multiple-warhead systems and defense-penetration devices, by intercepting telemetry signals from the missiles that were intended for Soviet engineers on the ground. Data from Soviet satellites could also be intercepted.

Chris was told he had been assigned to work in a communications vault that was the nerve center for this system of international espionage—a code room linking the TRW plant with CIA Headquarters and Rhyolite's major ground stations in Australia. The continuing disclosures about the secret world fascinated Chris, and he was especially intrigued by what he saw as a bizarre contrast between the mechanical spies he had been told about and the location of the ground stations. The Rhyolite earth stations had been planted in a world that was about as close as man could find now to the Stone Age; they were situated near Alice Springs in the harsh Outback of Australia, an oasis in a desert where aborigines still lived much as Stone Age men did thousands of years ago.

Under an Executive Agreement between the United States and Australia, Chris was told, all intelligence information collected by the satellites and relayed to the network of dish-shaped microwave antennas at Alice Springs was to be shared with the Australian intelligence service.

However, Rogers told Chris, the United States, by design, was not living up to the agreement: certain information was
not
being passed to Australia. He explained that TRW was designing a new, larger satellite with a new array of sensors; the Australians, Rogers emphasized, were never to be told about it; anytime Chris sent messages that would reach Australia, he must delete any reference to the new satellite.

Its name was Argus, or AR—for Advanced Rhyolite. Whoever in the CIA had selected the cryptonym must have enjoyed his choice, because it was appropriate. In Greek mythology, Argus was a giant with one hundred eyes … a vigilant guardian. With its array of sensors, the Central Intelligence Agency's Argus was mythology's giant brought to reality. It is not known whether the author of the code name knew the mythological fate of Argus. Ultimately Argus was slain by Hermes, the god of commerce, cunning and theft … the patron of thieves and rogues.

Chris was vaguely troubled by the revelation that one of America's closest allies was being deceived by the U.S. Government, but he let the thought slip away and accepted an invitation to go to lunch with some of the other TRW employees assigned to Rhyolite. The group included Rogers; Gene Norman, a thin, balding black man, and Fred Young, a taciturn engineer who he later learned was a former CIA agent who had been assigned to the agency's secret war in Laos and had used his pull in the organization to get a job on the TRW program when the war ended. Chris realized the lunch was to be a celebration of sorts, to mark his induction into their secret society.

His mind was still numb from the effects of the “whites” as he crowded with the others around a table at The Hangar, a dimly lit beer joint two blocks from M-4 that was a hangout for TRW workers. Hamburgers were ordered along with a pitcher of beer. The pitcher was soon empty, and they ordered one after another. Like lodge brothers introducing a new member to some of the inner secrets of their private fraternity, the older men gave Chris their observations about various bosses on the project, some opinions about the CIA residents who worked undercover at TRW and some thoughts on the women in M-4. Someone mentioned Laurie Vicker.

“She'll screw anybody; be careful,” Norman said with a laugh, and the others leered agreement. “She's kinky,” Rogers added, as if it were a warning, and Chris wondered what he meant specifically.

All four began to feel the effects of the beer after a while, but Norman was the least successful in concealing it. Slurring his words, he devoted ten minutes to recounting how, when he was in Vietnam, he and another Marine had raped a woman near a paddy field while her husband was kept back at rifle point. Chris had heard of such incidents, but never at first hand. He sat back with his glass of beer cradled between his hands and stared at the stranger as he added further details to his spicy narrative. What kind of group have I gotten into?, Chris asked himself.

By the time they arrived back at the plant, the four men had finished seven or eight—nobody was sure—pitchers of beer. Each paid extra attention to the challenge of not stumbling as they walked past the guards.

After lunch it was time for Chris to see the Black Vault.

Concealed in an obscure cluster of offices in M-4, it was a tiny fortress within a fortress that was separated from the rest of the plant by a steel vault door—the same kind, Chris noted, that banks used. Beneath the floor and around the vault, he was told, were thick blankets of concrete, and the vault door could be opened only with a three-number combination known by three people; even knowing the combination did not ensure entry, because behind the main door was another door that required a key.

The vault was located beyond a wall of an office used for processing classified data that was decorated in aerospace-industry bland, with squares of asphalt tile on the floor; wall panels painted turquoise; ceilings surfaced with squares of acoustical tile and the omnipresent fluorescent lights.

Seated at a desk near the vault door Chris saw a girl of about thirty with coarse black hair that seemed to have been combed recently without much effect. She was plump, with a large bosom, but not pretty enough to warrant a second glance. She was a “systems analyst”—an expert, he was told, on computers. Norman led Chris over to the desk and introduced him to Laurie Vicker. As they shook hands, Laurie looked Chris over, and a shameless look of interest flickered in her eyes that didn't escape him.

Off to one side of this office, Chris noticed a long room with walls lined with filing cabinets, each with a locked steel bar running down the center.

Beside the khaki-colored door of the vault, signs warned,
NO ADMITTANCE
, and
RESTRICTED AREA: ENTRY BY PERMISSION ONLY
. A smaller notice ordered no one to enter the vault without a clearance, and there was a sign-up sheet on which persons entering or leaving the vault were required to log the time.

Only six people were cleared for access to the vault, Chris was told, and he was to be one of them. People called it the Black Vault, Norman explained, because Black was a catchall term the intelligence community applied to any covert intelligence operation; Air Force officers assigned to the project, for example, called themselves the “Black Air Force”; “spooks” was another affectionate expression for operatives on CIA projects. Another TRW employee translated another euphemism; whenever “Special Programs” or “Special Project” was mentioned, it was likely to involve espionage.

It was time to enter the vault.

The Black Vault (Communications Vault) was located in a heavily guarded complex within Building M-4.

Chris was led past the threshold and discovered a room that was long and narrow—maybe fifteen feet long, no more than five feet across. Flimsy red carpeting covered the floor; the dropped ceiling was veneered with sound-absorbent tile; folders, binders and books were stacked around the room in no apparent order. There were also a floor safe and several filing cabinets, two clocks showing
different
times of day, a table and a chair. Along one wall was a machine that looked to Chris like a teletype machine, and on the opposite wall were two similar machines with keyboards. About midway in the vault was a set of drapes that prevented anyone who might be walking by from seeing in when the vault door was open, and also provided a barrier between two people working within the vault.

Norman said Chris would have to have a “Crypto Briefing” from the National Security Agency before he worked in the vault. The NSA outranked even the CIA when it came to dealing with the transmission of classified information, he explained, and the NSA briefing officer wouldn't be at the plant until next month. Because of that, he added, he couldn't tell him everything about operations in the vault.

At the close of what would seem later like a long day, Chris was handed a two-page statement by Rogers. The statement, CIA Form 2441, read:

SPECIAL PROJECT SECRECY AGREEMENT

I acknowledge that I have been indoctrinated in the Project identified below and thus have received highly classified information related to United States intelligence collection activities. I am aware that the unauthorized disclosure or negligent handling of such information could seriously affect the national defense and that the transmission or revelation of such information to unauthorized persons could subject me to prosecution under the Espionage Laws. I have been informed that approval for access to Project information may only be granted by Project Headquarters. I have also been informed that extraordinary security measures and controls have been established to protect Project information and that access to such information is restricted to those who “must know” based on their present position or functional use.

I realize that a briefing of this scope and depth, which identifies sponsorship, reveals codewords and admits to the ultimate intelligence application of the Project, is given only to those individuals who have been specifically approved for the above identified Project at the highest level and that this type of information may not be divulged to individuals with lesser levels of access.

Having reviewed the above security requirements, I pledge that I will never publish or reveal, by any means, classified Project information to unauthorized persons. Along with this pledge, I recognize and accept the fact that I have a personal and individual responsibility for the protection of all such information in my possession no matter where generated or how acquired and agree to abide by the security requirements and regulations established for the Project.

There was an additional pledge not to visit Communist countries without prior approval. The agreement concluded by identifying Projects Rhyolite and Argus as the subjects of the security agreement. Chris signed it, and the agreement itself was marked SECRET.

Just before quitting time, Norman gave him one more quick tour of the vault. He spun the combination of the Diebold floor safe and reached in and showed Chris a handful of papers that he said contained codes for the cipher equipment the NSA was to brief him about later.

“These are probably worth twenty thousand dollars a month to the Russians,” he boasted, a conspiratorial grin on his face. Chris just looked at the ciphers, not knowing what response was expected of him. He decided the black man was a braggart.

After work, Chris found his Volkswagen in the parking lot. But before getting in, he decided to puff a joint. He lit up one that had been in the car and watched the passing crowds of TRW workers, not yet sure that he liked the aerospace industry.

He spotted Laurie Vicker in the crowd walking toward him, and as she approached, looking for her car, a flash of recognition appeared in her eyes. She recognized the odor of the smoke coiling out of the joint, smiled at Chris and kept on walking.

The next day Laurie was wearing a low-cut dress that revealed a substantial panorama of cleavage. Before noon, she came into the vault; Chris was momentarily by himself, and she invited him to have lunch with her at her boyfriend's apartment; the boyfriend was out of town working, she explained, with an inviting smile.

Chris couldn't avoid admiring her breasts as she leaned over the desk where he was working. But there was something coarse about her that subdued any lust he might have felt. He declined the invitation—the first of many she would tender, even after she got married.