David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

Rick flashed the slide with the world map showing red dots were he planned to place the surveillance fleet. “As a private yacht, we’ll be able to penetrate a number of ports where any type of naval-flagged vessel could not normally enter, or would be under constant surveillance if they did. We have plans for a direct uplink back to DC so we can make best use of the intel on a real-time basis.” Rick let his gaze slide toward Rear Admiral Cork, but the man who had already funded the first ship in the program stared at the table and said nothing.

“How much?” Daugherty said.

Rick drew in a deep breath. “Well, sir, it depends on a lot of factors. We’re hoping to partner with the Naval Academy to use some of their older yawls—”

“Don’t bullshit with me, Captain. How much is the line item in my black budget?”

Daugherty’s eyes had narrowed to slits and Rick gritted his teeth. He fast-forwarded through the budget buildup slides to the final tally.

The admiral let out a hiss. “No fucking way, Captain.” He turned to Cork. “You funded a pilot of this bullshit scheme, Steve? There’s some useful intel, I’ll grant you, but where do you think we’ll find the money?”

Cork’s voice was tight. “It’s a good program, Admiral, and it gives us stuff we can’t get anywhere else—”

“Why don’t we take a tour?” said Abrahamson in a bright tone. “Rick’s got the first boat on blocks out in the yard and the interior’s roughed out for the electronics. You should see the first article, Jack. It’ll help you see what we’re trying to accomplish.”

Rick stared at the Supe. What the hell was he doing? The ship they were working on was no more than a shell; there was nothing to see at all. Malveaux, a look of panic in her eyes, slipped out the door to alert O’Brien.

Daugherty checked his watch, then stood. “Alright, Jake, we still have a little time. If you think it’ll make a difference, I’ll give you another few minutes.”

Rick led the way out of the conference room and into the yard. The sweltering humidity of an Annapolis summer enveloped the group, and Rick sweated under his uniform shirt. He wondered to himself whether the admiral would at least let him finish the pilot boat or pull all funding immediately. They rounded the final corner before they reached the boat. With a quick scan, he could see that O’Brien had done a nice job cleaning up the work site. The old man stood at some semblance of attention next to the hull, his pipe nowhere in sight. Rick nodded at the master chief and turned to face the tour group.

“This is the vessel, Admiral. She’s not much to look at yet, but as you can see…”

He did not have Daugherty’s attention. The admiral was looking past Rick. Rick turned around to find O’Brien saluting.

Admiral Daugherty had stopped in his tracks. “Master Chief? Is that really you?” He snapped a quick salute, then strode forward and grabbed O’Brien’s hand. The sternness had drained away from his face, and he smiled broadly. “How long has it been, Master Chief?”

“Long time, Admiral. You’ve done well for yourself, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so. I always knew you’d make flag.”

Daugherty blushed. “It’s all because of you, Master Chief.”

Rick cleared his throat. “Admiral—”

Master Chief O’Brien spoke up. “Sorry to interrupt, sir . Do you mind if I give the admiral the tour of our project? It’ll give us some time to catch up.”

The Superintendent answered for Rick. “I’m sure that would be fine, Master Chief. We’ll meet you back in the conference room. Take your time.”

Rick stared at Abrahamson, who smiled and gave him a slow wink.

Don put his television on mute and turned to the open window overlooking the Vantaa River.

The waterway glistened in the morning sunshine, and a pair of kayaks zipped by. Even though it was only late August, the leaves of the trees that lined the far riverbank had already begun to turn colors. Don shivered when he thought about what this place would look like in only a few weeks.

He blew out his breath. This trip was stacking up to be a complete waste of time. He threw a glance back at the television, where CNN was rerunning Netanyahu’s 2012 speech to the United Nations for the hundredth time. The schoolboy quality of his “redline” rhetoric and the ridiculous poster of a cartoon bomb made for good banter on the punditry circuit, but neither accomplished anything in the real world.

Don knew the Israelis had both the capability and the willpower to strike Iran if they felt cornered, but in the US, it was a different story. The public was done with war in the Middle East; “war-weary” was the new Capitol Hill buzzword. Iraq was finally over — at least as far as the US population was concerned — and it was time to start getting out of Afghanistan as well.

The silent TV screen divided, Netanyahu on one side and Obama on the other. The irony of it made Don grimace. It seemed that one man was doing all he could to avoid a war and the other doing all he could to get into one.

And now this last-minute meeting with Iran to screw up his three-day weekend. It had always been on the schedule as a possible event, but it was also expected to be canceled. There were formal P5+1 negotiations planned in Geneva less than six weeks away, and everyone expected the new Rouhani administration to make a statement there about their plans for the nuclear talks.

This was only a working group meeting, and Rouhani had been in office less than three weeks. The man was probably still learning where the bathrooms were located. The P5 members, or the permanent members of the United Nations Security Council — namely the UK, US, China, Russia, and France — were joined by Germany — the +1—to make up the official negotiating team for the Iranian nuclear talks. The Finnish meetings were true working sessions, staffed by a core group of third-level technical experts tasked with hammering out pre-meeting language and rules. The tier-one negotiating team ignored these meetings as nothing more than bureaucratic grunt work.

The gathering today was expected to be even more sparse than usual. With the end of summer in the northern hemisphere, the US Labor Day holiday, and the expected reset from Iran in October, everyone had expected this meeting to be canceled. Even the most hardcore staffers were deserting the meeting like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Not that Don hadn’t tried. He’d put in for leave, which was promptly denied by Clem with a bullshit “outta my hands, buddy” excuse. Don thought about going to his CIA supervisor, but he finally decided to take the trip. His stomach rumbled, and he belched gently into his fist. Minor food poisoning from the meal aboard the plane was just the icing on the cake for what looked like a total fucking waste of his weekend.

He glanced at his watch. Time to get ready. With one last longing look out the window, he snatched his tie off the bed and faced the mirror.

The French doors of the ballroom were open, filling the room with fresh air and the warm scents of late summer. Birdcalls filtered in from outside.

The tables were arranged as before, two rows facing each other. Of the dozen seats on either side, only about two-thirds of the places had name tags. Don wondered if he had enough time before the meeting started to call the airline about getting an early flight home.

The US delegation leader was there with a few of his cronies. He nodded to Don but didn’t bother to come over to say hello. They’d found out he was CIA and that made him persona non grata to the career bureaucrats.