The Polaris Protocol (32 page)

T
he thermal showed the apartment was still empty. Which, given that we’d had eyes on the front gate leading into the parking lot for the past fifteen minutes, stood to reason. We were waiting on the sun to drop below the horizon, and I needed to ensure nobody entered the apartment in the meantime. There
was
one heat source in the target, and after analysis by someone smarter than me, it looked like it was a hamster. I think the wheel-spinning gave it away.

I looked at my watch, now synchronized to the ticking clock on the doomsday computer, and saw we had less than two hours before the GPS constellation went crazy. Less time than that to call off Operation Gimlet, because they wouldn’t want the aircraft to penetrate Syrian airspace if they weren’t going to drop the bombs. Which, from what I was reading about our chances, was what was about to happen.

We’d flown straight to Colorado Springs and met a cell of Taskforce computer experts, who’d set up an operations center in the Hampton Inn by the airport. With the thumbprint it had taken less time than our flight from Mexico City to find our target: a contractor working for Boeing named Arthur Booth.

He’d taken some vacation time a few days before, ostensibly visiting relatives in Canada. The Taskforce had gone to work, tracking his credit cards and cell phone usage. They’d found cellular data and credit purchases that tied Booth to El Paso earlier in the month, but the recent history was blank. He hadn’t used his cell phone or credit cards in days. The last purchase they could find had been for one round-trip ticket to Mexico City from Denver, returning yesterday. He had not used the second leg, which made perfect sense, given I’d seen him at the museum earlier that day running like a girl.

With Arthur Booth’s personal digital trail a dead end, the Taskforce dug deeper, scanning official domestic databases, probing with a wide net to find some link that would lead them to the target, and had gotten lucky. Arthur Booth had gone through immigration at Dallas earlier today, with onward travel to Colorado Springs.

Originally ordered to bring the computer to the might of the Taskforce fifty-pound heads in Washington, DC, we’d been redirected midflight to Colorado Springs with a dual purpose. The hacking cell would go to work on the computer here, in a makeshift operations center, and we would go after Booth.

We’d gotten a dry hole at his apartment, but I hoped something inside there would give us a clue as to where he had gone. Ordinarily, we’d just have sat there waiting, for days if necessary, instead of attempting a break-and-enter, but we didn’t have that luxury this time.

Which is exactly why we hadn’t simply alerted domestic authorities, claiming Booth was a serial killer or something else that would get him on every beat cop’s radar screen. We couldn’t break him free from the police without raising an enormous flag as to who we were and why we wanted him. The decision had been made to do a domestic Taskforce operation, against a US citizen, which was a big decision indeed.

Operating domestically was forbidden by the Taskforce charter, precisely because we had the ability to break quite a few constitutional protections afforded the average United States citizen. We didn’t have congressional oversight like the intelligence community and the Department of Defense. Without this scrutiny, the Taskforce had the capacity to grow into something cancerous, becoming the very threat we were created to fight, and thus the decision had been made to keep it off US soil. Keep the beast at bay in the hinterlands, as it were, doing evil so good may come.

We had operated domestically in the past, but against foreign targets, as we had in the Dallas airport. We’d conducted only one operation domestically against a US citizen, but the threat had been overwhelming—a domestic terrorist attack to destroy our power grid—and it was judged that the Taskforce was the lone tool that could solve the problem. I remembered well the enormous debate surrounding that mission, because I’d been at the heart of it. We had succeeded, and apparently, that had made this debate a little easier.

I was happy with the verdict, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t give me a little unease. With only the Oversight Council as a decision maker, there was the threat of hasty judgments based on emotion or an imperfect intelligence picture, something I’d seen happen only six months ago on another operation, causing Kurt Hale to offer his resignation.

A problem to worry about later. Right now, I had an asshole on the loose that I needed to capture to stop a catastrophe, and little time to worry about any constitutional niceties.

Although there was still a glow of twilight, I judged it dark enough to execute. I turned to Jennifer. “You ready?”

“Yeah. I see my route. I’ll use the balconies.”

The building was a four-story brick structure with a single access point on the ground floor, secured with a keypad. From our reconnaissance earlier, we’d learned that the entrance could be unlocked from the apartments themselves, as we’d seen a pizza delivery guy speak into a box, then pull the door open. That was now Jennifer’s mission.

Dressed like Catwoman, in a black Lycra Under Armour shirt and leggings that fit like a second skin, she was going to scale to the fourth-floor apartment, break in through the sliding glass door, then hit the entrance button.

I said, “Get moving. We’re wasting time.”

She exited the vehicle; scurried through the foliage, avoiding the pool of light from a streetlamp; and reached the corner of the building.

A voice in the backseat said, “Who is that chick? I didn’t think we had any female operators.”

His name was Bartholomew Creedwater, and he was supposedly the best computer guy the Taskforce had. He’d probably never once left his little hole inside Taskforce headquarters in DC, and he was treating this whole operation as the time of his life.

Beside him, Decoy said, “I didn’t think so either, until I saw her do some shooting in Mexico.”

I said, “She’s a monkey. She can climb just about anything, which comes in handy during situations like this.”

Standing on the railing of the bottom balcony, Jennifer leapt up and grasped the concrete of the balcony above. From there, she began to move like a lizard, seeming to flow upward against gravity.

Creedwater said, “That is positively amazing. Where’d she come from?”

I said, “Cirque du Soleil. She’s a gymnast.”

We continued to watch her climb, Creedwater acting like he was in a spy movie, his mouth hanging open.

He said, “I wonder if she likes computer geeks.”

What?
I looked at him, and I swear I thought he was constructing some fantasy in his head. “Hey, keep focused on the mission. I didn’t drag you out here so you could watch a show.”

We were bringing him and his skills into the apartment to survey whatever electronic stuff was available, hoping to find a lead. His mission ended at a keyboard. He snapped his mouth closed, embarrassed.

Decoy said, “Yeah, Creed. Trust me, you don’t want to go after Jennifer. It’ll make some people mad.”

I snapped my head toward him, wondering.
Is that because I almost bit his head off for what he’s said about Jennifer in the past? Or does he know? Did Knuckles talk?

Decoy had a little grin on his face, giving nothing away.

Through my earpiece I heard, “On the balcony.”

I said, “Roger,” signaled Creed in the backseat, and opened the door to the car.

We walked with purpose to the front door of the complex, leaving Decoy behind as early warning in case Booth came back while we were inside.

We reached the entrance just as Jennifer said, “I’m in.”

W
e waited less than thirty seconds before hearing the door buzz. A minute later, we were inside the apartment. It was your typical furnished rental, with a cheap sofa, chipped end tables, and absolutely no personal effects. No pictures on the walls, books, or anything else. Sitting next to a wide-screen TV, I saw an Alienware desktop computer that looked like it belonged to NASA. I pointed to it and said, “First things first, get all electronic devices next to that computer. Creed, get to work.”

He laid a backpack on the ground and began pulling out all sorts of black-magic devices. Jennifer went into the bedroom.

I watched Creed attack the computer, fascinated that anyone could do what he was doing. I was pretty tech savvy, but this guy was on a whole different level. He had the monitor running script that looked like the Matrix but seemed to understand what he was reading.

I said, “Why can’t you guys do this with the laptop we brought?”

Still working, he said, “We scanned it, and there are indicators of little booby traps threaded throughout. The guy who created that program is pretty damn good with code. Trust me, I could get into the computer, but I’m afraid that I’ll cause the software program to self-destruct. We lose that thing, and we’ll have no way to turn off the threat. Given enough time, I could do it, but not in two hours.”

Story of my life.

Thirty minutes later he was done. In addition to the desktop, he’d gone through two tablets and an iPod. He’d collated a list of potential leads from various threads in each system. Known contacts, repeated bills from restaurants, multiple ISP hits, and anything else that stood out. I contacted the Taskforce and had them start their analysis. Given the time crunch, I needed some focus on where to begin. They’d be making an educated guess, but it was better than starting at the first name on the list and moving down.

Working the screen, Creed said, “This guy has been a very bad boy. He’s accessed just about every hacking message board in the world.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I used to do the same thing. Before I saw the light with the Taskforce.”

“Can you work it back? Find out specifically who he talked to?”

“Yeah. Given some time, I could figure it out. Maybe not a name, but I could get the ISP location.” He leaned into the screen and said, “I’ve also got one MAC address unaccounted for.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I have all of his router information, and included in that are MAC addresses that accessed his Wi-Fi. I can account for the target laptop you captured, these tablets, and the iPod, but there’s one more MAC address that’s not tied to anything we know of. Could just have been someone visiting, but maybe it’s a lead.”

“What are you talking about? How’s that a lead?”

He started stroking the keys to the desktop, saying, “The MAC is the identification the computer uses to talk to Wi-Fi. It’s specific to that computer, and we might be able to locate it.”

“How?”

“There’s a company called Skyhook. They’ve mapped close to a billion Wi-Fi hotspots, basically by driving down roads and sucking in signals. If that MAC is talking to a Wi-Fi hotspot in their database, it’ll give us a location.”

“So those guys can identify
any
MAC? Anywhere? Isn’t that a little like an illegal wiretap?”

He smiled, still pounding keys. “No. You have to have their software program installed in your device. In effect, you have to agree to the location service.”

“And you think this guy did that?”

He said, “No, he probably didn’t do that, but Skyhook doesn’t employ people like me. They won’t locate you without the software, but it doesn’t mean they can’t. Well, it doesn’t mean
I
can’t. All I have to do is get in their system.”

He continued typing and Jennifer came back into the room. She said, “Didn’t find anything else of value. What’s he doing?”

“Beats the hell out of me. Some type of black magic with a computer.”

He typed a little more, then said, “Yes! It’s here, in Colorado Springs.”

On the screen was a Google map, with a glowing icon. Creed went to street view on the computer, and I was looking at the front of a bar called Blondie’s.

Amazing. Scary, but amazing.

I called the Taskforce, seeing what they’d done with the data I’d given them. To my surprise, Kurt took the call instead of an analyst.

He said, “Pike, we’ve got him. The list you sent included a guy named Peter Scarborough. He works with Boeing as well. Both Peter and Booth are directly responsible for the monitoring of the GPS constellation. This morning Scarborough sent four thousand dollars via Western Union to Mexico City. I don’t know if they’re working together on this, but he’s a definite link. Address will be in your phone. Get moving. You have less than an hour.”

I said, “Sir, we have another location.” I told him about the MAC address, saying, “Getting Peter won’t be enough. We can always pick him up later, but we need Booth.”

“But you don’t know that’s Booth’s MAC address. It could be from someone who simply used his Wi-Fi, right?”

“Yeah, but this guy doesn’t appear to have a lot of friends over. If I go to Peter’s address and Booth’s not there, I won’t have time to redirect.”

“You have the same problem in reverse. You get to the MAC address and Booth isn’t on the keyboard, we’re screwed. Pike, we get one shot. The strike package will be starting their attack run soon.”

“You want to call it off? I don’t have the manpower for split operations. It’s either one target or the other.”

“You tell me. The president’s inclined to do so, but they’re all waiting on word from your operation. That includes the guys entering Syrian airspace.”

A
t forty-seven thousand feet, Captain Eddie “Bricktop” Brickmeyer checked the SATCOM radio, making sure the link was still established. Flying straight up the Mediterranean, he and his wingman were closing into range of Syrian air defenses, and he couldn’t afford to miss an abort, should it come. The last thing he wanted to do was attempt penetration of a hostile country flying into the teeth of an arsenal designed to destroy any combat aircraft that dared approach, only to find out his mission had been scrubbed after the fact.

He knew the importance of the operation, though, and took pride in the fact that his squadron had been selected. There had been a lot of discussion over the last few years about how the B-2 was a luxury the United States no longer needed. With the end of the Cold War and the beginnings of the War on Terror, everyone had started kissing all the special operations forces’ asses while looking askance at his missions, questioning his worth.

Why did we need such an expensive airframe? What terrorist group requires a Stealth bomber to eliminate it? When would we ever require such technology fighting a substate threat? That’s what the almighty SEALs and Special Forces were for. Better just to throw money at them.

Then this mission had appeared. No SEAL on earth could do what he was about to do. And no other aircraft could accomplish this mission. Could fly unseen through a barrage of radar and air defenses, penetrate and destroy a hardened, deeply buried target inside a hostile country.

When the president had asked for options to eliminate the threat of Syria’s chemical weapons stockpile, plenty of ideas had been thrown around, but there was only one left standing in the end: a B-2 carrying MOPs, or massive ordnance penetrators, one in each weapons bay.

The MOP was a GPS-guided bomb that contained more than five thousand pounds of explosives. The largest conventional munition in the world, it was designed to burrow deep into a hardened bunker before exploding, rendering that protection moot.

The pilots called it the MOAB: the Mother of All Bombs. It had never been used in active hostility before, and Bricktop was honored to be chosen as the flight lead for the historic mission.

He checked his instruments, talked to his wingman, and began his attack run. In twenty minutes, they’d be inside Syrian airspace. Thirty minutes after that, they’d be a ghost heading back to the Med, but the world would know they had been there by the smoking holes they left in the ground. Whether those craters would reflect the destruction of Syria’s WMD or the slaughter of innocents was not something that ever entered Bricktop’s mind.

Other than the release point, he had no responsibility for targeting. There really was no need. He knew how precise GPS was. Knew that the encrypted military signal would put the MOAB within three yards of where it was intended. As long as he released it correctly, it couldn’t miss, short of a catastrophic failure of the US GPS constellation.

And no way would that ever happen.

* * *

Abdul Hakim rolled over on his pallet and stared at the stars above his head. With the brutal heat of the Syrian desert, he, like most in his village, slept on the roof in the summertime. Dawn was still over an hour away, but he’d found it safer to make the water run before then. Before the soldiers awakened, skittish and willing to shoot at the slightest provocation.

He woke up his younger brother and they gathered the water containers—old milk jugs, gallon jars, and a battered plastic bucket—then descended the stairs to the street below.

Since the beginning of the uprising in Syria the brothers’ lives had become hard. Living in Palmyra, in the center of the country, the environment was a challenge, but now with the fighting, it had become downright hostile. Four months ago insurgents had set off a car bomb in front of the minister of intelligence’s headquarters building. They’d managed to kill seven of the dreaded security forces, but the explosion within the close confines of the cramped town had shattered the livelihoods of many more. Abdul hated the violence and dreaded the thought of real firepower coming to bear.

The village had once been known as a major tourist pathway. Built on an oasis in the middle of the Syrian desert, it had been a Roman center for trade. Called Tadmor by the locals, the sheltered town had erupted in 2011 with protests against President Assad. Unfortunately for the inhabitants, Palmyra had something else besides relics that the government desired to protect. Something worth much more to them than a few musty stone arches.

Protests here were treated differently than the initial outbursts elsewhere. Here they were crushed with ruthless efficiency. The soldiers patrolling the streets knew nobody was watching this desolate desert town, but their hostility was driven by more than the simple absence of press. After the first protest and the forceful regime response, the people realized that the soldiers feared more than just losing the town. They feared losing what they’d been charged with protecting.

Abdul knew none of this, of course. All he understood was that they no longer had running water, and if he wished his family to drink today, he needed to collect enough before the sun rose. Before the soldiers woke and began scanning for targets.

He had no idea that their paltry little weapons were nothing compared to what was on its final approach to his location. No idea that his entire world was held hostage by a radio signal weak enough to be broken by a clap of thunder.