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.”6Typhoon 57Over the Eastern Mediterranean SeaColonel Bradley’s aircraft was just passing over Cyprus when he got the call he was expecting on the secure telephone.Dr.Thomas B.Washington, Deputy Director of Operations (DDO), United States Central Intelligence Agency, spoke into the STU-IV.Bradley listened to his boss, holding the receiver away from his ear as the DDO cursed through the satellite phone.As DDO, Washington specialized in HUMINT, or Human Intelligence.For almost twenty years he had been working with various intelligence contacts overseas—smugglers, spies, traders in human flesh, traitors, officers, and even the occasional king, president, or premier; men who for one reason or another—money, sex, power, hatred, or revenge—had been willing to trade what information they had for what they wanted most.Washington knew these men; he knew who they were and what they had done.The secrets in his head were worth many lives.And because his professional life was a shadow of covert operations and lies, the elements of which he rarely seemed to be able to control, Washington compensated by demanding perfection from his underlings and staff.And the one thing he couldn’t tolerate was being caught unaware.And the fact that none of Washington’s informants, none of the dark work he had done, none of top-secret sources he had cultivated over the years, had provided him with an early warning of the pending catastrophe, only made the bitter news worse.Washington had sold his soul to satisfy these dark, evil men, and none of them had come forward to warn him in time.Bradley calmly sipped at a bottle of water and watched the passing night clouds, while Thomas Washington ranted on the phone, knowing it would take another twenty or thirty seconds before his boss would settle down.Despite the tirade, the men had a good relationship, though both would admit it was often strained.For one thing, their personal backgrounds were as different as their skin color; Washington, a black man from the inner city, Bradley, a white kid from the upper middle class.Dr.Thomas B.Washington, Ph.D., was a self-made intellectual raised in the ghettos of Detroit: slumlords and slum schools—he had seen nothing but crap since the day he was born.Indeed, he was one of the very few children in the United States who actually grew up hungry, sucking on dirty bottles filled with sugar water and playing among discarded beer bottles thrown in the corners of his mother’s drug-infested bedroom.He was barely more than eight when he saw his first murder, by ten he was running acid and heroin, slipping tiny plastic bags under neighborhood doors.But, through it all, there was something inside him, something hot, rich, and angry, something that sensed the great waste that he had become, something that screamed with a fury, “you are better than this!” Sometime during his fourteenth year he made a decision.He was getting out.He would not die this way, twenty years old and destroyed by life.Guts and grit (he had not yet discovered his brains) were all that he had, and all he could hope was that it was enough, but he swore that one way or another he would scratch his way out of this dead, lethal world.When he started high school, Washington moved in with an aunt who, if she didn’t quite live on the good side of the tracks, at least didn’t reside in the human garbage dump either.He worked hard, driven by the hunger inside, and after teaching himself to read, graduated near the top of his high school class, not enough to get a scholarship, but enough to get admitted to NYU.Government grants and odd jobs kept him flush through his years of earning an undergraduate degree.From there, he worked days while going to school at night, earning his doctorate in International Studies.He spent a few years as a consultant to the Department of Defense before being recruited by the CIA, where he found his home, and he had been there ever since.Bradley, on the other hand, grew up in the upper middle class, his father a well-known and hard-core army general.The old man, one of McNamara’s masterminds, raised his sons tight and straight—tight like his crew cut, straight as the crease in his pants.To this day, if Bradley closed his eyes, he could still hear his old man’s voice.“Army! You hear me! Boys, there is nothing else! Not air force, not navy! They’re nothing but spit in the wind! You walk the gray line and you sweat army green!”No, Washington and Bradley couldn’t have come from more opposite worlds; but the result was the same: they were both determined men.But ambition and clandestine operations were a volatile mix.And through the years that they had worked together (years during which Bradley resented being called away from the cockpit and the flying he loved), they had butted heads more than once.But still there was enough respect that they enjoyed working together; and truth was, each considered the other a good friend.After cursing and ranting about the situation in general, venting an anger that was born of frustration and gut-wrenching fear, all the time knowing it was ultimately his fault, Dr.Washington settled down and finally got to the point.“The risk is too great to not take action,” he said.“The NSA staff is on board.We’re calling POTUS now.”“Where is he?” Bradley asked.“Up in New York.About to have dinner with the delegation from Oman.”Bradley thought a moment, then questioned hesitatingly.“Are you certain we have enough evidence to request a DARKHORSE operation?”Washington only scoffed.“You’re kidding me, right!?”“No sir, I’m not.I think we need to ask the question before we jump off this cliff.Do we understand the situation enough to—”“No, Shane, we don’t understand! We don’t understand anything, which is the entire point.We don’t understand the situation, which is exactly why we must act.”Bradley waited, sucking on his cheek as he thought.“And you believe POTUS will authorize an operation?” he asked into the phone.Washington didn’t waver.“Yes.”After completing the conversation with Washington, Bradley made his own call to Col.Dick “Tracy” Kier, his vice wing commander, back at Whiteman Air Force Base.It took several minutes for the call to patch through.“Colonel Kier,” his friend finally said as he picked up the phone.“Tracy, it’s Shane,” Bradley announced hurriedly.“You okay?” Kier asked, a worried tone in his voice.If Shane was in trouble, then, baby, he was there.He was as protective of Bradley as any subordinate could be.Bradley almost smiled.Loyalty and dedication were only two of the reasons he had selected Colonel Kier to be his second in command.“I’m fine,” he answered quickly, “but we’ve got a problem here.”There was a short pause.“What’s up, boss?”“Stay close to your intel office.You should be hearing soon.”Kier grunted, an apprehensive reply [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.”6Typhoon 57Over the Eastern Mediterranean SeaColonel Bradley’s aircraft was just passing over Cyprus when he got the call he was expecting on the secure telephone.Dr.Thomas B.Washington, Deputy Director of Operations (DDO), United States Central Intelligence Agency, spoke into the STU-IV.Bradley listened to his boss, holding the receiver away from his ear as the DDO cursed through the satellite phone.As DDO, Washington specialized in HUMINT, or Human Intelligence.For almost twenty years he had been working with various intelligence contacts overseas—smugglers, spies, traders in human flesh, traitors, officers, and even the occasional king, president, or premier; men who for one reason or another—money, sex, power, hatred, or revenge—had been willing to trade what information they had for what they wanted most.Washington knew these men; he knew who they were and what they had done.The secrets in his head were worth many lives.And because his professional life was a shadow of covert operations and lies, the elements of which he rarely seemed to be able to control, Washington compensated by demanding perfection from his underlings and staff.And the one thing he couldn’t tolerate was being caught unaware.And the fact that none of Washington’s informants, none of the dark work he had done, none of top-secret sources he had cultivated over the years, had provided him with an early warning of the pending catastrophe, only made the bitter news worse.Washington had sold his soul to satisfy these dark, evil men, and none of them had come forward to warn him in time.Bradley calmly sipped at a bottle of water and watched the passing night clouds, while Thomas Washington ranted on the phone, knowing it would take another twenty or thirty seconds before his boss would settle down.Despite the tirade, the men had a good relationship, though both would admit it was often strained.For one thing, their personal backgrounds were as different as their skin color; Washington, a black man from the inner city, Bradley, a white kid from the upper middle class.Dr.Thomas B.Washington, Ph.D., was a self-made intellectual raised in the ghettos of Detroit: slumlords and slum schools—he had seen nothing but crap since the day he was born.Indeed, he was one of the very few children in the United States who actually grew up hungry, sucking on dirty bottles filled with sugar water and playing among discarded beer bottles thrown in the corners of his mother’s drug-infested bedroom.He was barely more than eight when he saw his first murder, by ten he was running acid and heroin, slipping tiny plastic bags under neighborhood doors.But, through it all, there was something inside him, something hot, rich, and angry, something that sensed the great waste that he had become, something that screamed with a fury, “you are better than this!” Sometime during his fourteenth year he made a decision.He was getting out.He would not die this way, twenty years old and destroyed by life.Guts and grit (he had not yet discovered his brains) were all that he had, and all he could hope was that it was enough, but he swore that one way or another he would scratch his way out of this dead, lethal world.When he started high school, Washington moved in with an aunt who, if she didn’t quite live on the good side of the tracks, at least didn’t reside in the human garbage dump either.He worked hard, driven by the hunger inside, and after teaching himself to read, graduated near the top of his high school class, not enough to get a scholarship, but enough to get admitted to NYU.Government grants and odd jobs kept him flush through his years of earning an undergraduate degree.From there, he worked days while going to school at night, earning his doctorate in International Studies.He spent a few years as a consultant to the Department of Defense before being recruited by the CIA, where he found his home, and he had been there ever since.Bradley, on the other hand, grew up in the upper middle class, his father a well-known and hard-core army general.The old man, one of McNamara’s masterminds, raised his sons tight and straight—tight like his crew cut, straight as the crease in his pants.To this day, if Bradley closed his eyes, he could still hear his old man’s voice.“Army! You hear me! Boys, there is nothing else! Not air force, not navy! They’re nothing but spit in the wind! You walk the gray line and you sweat army green!”No, Washington and Bradley couldn’t have come from more opposite worlds; but the result was the same: they were both determined men.But ambition and clandestine operations were a volatile mix.And through the years that they had worked together (years during which Bradley resented being called away from the cockpit and the flying he loved), they had butted heads more than once.But still there was enough respect that they enjoyed working together; and truth was, each considered the other a good friend.After cursing and ranting about the situation in general, venting an anger that was born of frustration and gut-wrenching fear, all the time knowing it was ultimately his fault, Dr.Washington settled down and finally got to the point.“The risk is too great to not take action,” he said.“The NSA staff is on board.We’re calling POTUS now.”“Where is he?” Bradley asked.“Up in New York.About to have dinner with the delegation from Oman.”Bradley thought a moment, then questioned hesitatingly.“Are you certain we have enough evidence to request a DARKHORSE operation?”Washington only scoffed.“You’re kidding me, right!?”“No sir, I’m not.I think we need to ask the question before we jump off this cliff.Do we understand the situation enough to—”“No, Shane, we don’t understand! We don’t understand anything, which is the entire point.We don’t understand the situation, which is exactly why we must act.”Bradley waited, sucking on his cheek as he thought.“And you believe POTUS will authorize an operation?” he asked into the phone.Washington didn’t waver.“Yes.”After completing the conversation with Washington, Bradley made his own call to Col.Dick “Tracy” Kier, his vice wing commander, back at Whiteman Air Force Base.It took several minutes for the call to patch through.“Colonel Kier,” his friend finally said as he picked up the phone.“Tracy, it’s Shane,” Bradley announced hurriedly.“You okay?” Kier asked, a worried tone in his voice.If Shane was in trouble, then, baby, he was there.He was as protective of Bradley as any subordinate could be.Bradley almost smiled.Loyalty and dedication were only two of the reasons he had selected Colonel Kier to be his second in command.“I’m fine,” he answered quickly, “but we’ve got a problem here.”There was a short pause.“What’s up, boss?”“Stay close to your intel office.You should be hearing soon.”Kier grunted, an apprehensive reply [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]