John Barnes - Directive 51

“Perfect.” Oh, good, the end of the world will be comfortably to my taste.

“Just hit the space bar when you’re ready to read the briefing. Anything else I can do for you?”

“I’m good, I’ve been through these before.” Too many of these, Heather thought, fixing her coffee. She sipped, pressed the space bar and looked.

Her gaze froze onto the screen. So that was where Samuelson had been while the media were lathering about whether he’d been muzzled or had a breakdown. Jayapura was not exactly where you’d think to look—a place most Americans hadn’t thought about since MacArthur invaded there.

She scrolled down, and as she read more, her belly seemed to hold a ball of solid ice. What the hell had everyone been doing for all this time? How had they let the VP be in that isolated town halfway round the world in the first place without proper security? Dammit! Samuelson thinks agreeing is more important than what you agree about, and they strung him along forever, then rushed him, and because he didn’t want “small details” —like proper security!— to be in the way, all the normal security just got peeled off like a guy trying to finish a dogsled race and throwing off his camping stuff, then his spare food, then his water, then his coat—and now the blizzard hits.

So the whole time, as they sacrificed all his security, our brave good-hearted goddam fucking naïve Samuelson kept reassuring everyone that he wasn’t afraid, and nobody said, “But, sir, it’s not just the danger to you , and the reason you’re not afraid is that you’re a fool.”

Radio silence; going out without the direct-to-satellite transmitters, when it turned out they didn’t have one on short notice; not flying one out

ASAP because another plane landing at Sentani might have drawn attention; who the hell’s brilliant idea had that been?

Three real stupid temporary solutions. Or were they stupid ? Did they all come from the same place?

Shit. All three from one Samuelson advisor, Atela Pawhan, formerly Mary Davis. Back when she was Davis, she’d been briefly married to a guy who was now identified as a sometime stringer on the edge of the il’Alb il-Jihado network. Pawhan had a cousin, Lorenzo Bell, who worked in the secured storage where they kept the encrypted direct-to-satellite boxes—

She had almost posted round those people up, now,before she saw the screen title: BELL GROUP, IDENTIFIED MEMBERS AND DISPOSITIONS.

Duh.

The reason it was all there on one screen for her to find was that the FBI had already tried to arrest Pawhan and Bell about an hour ago. They found Pawhan dead in her apartment, which had been trashed in a way that fit the script for “surprised an intruder.” Bell had extensive gambling debts, and a suicide note, to go with being found hanging from his showerhead. The feebs didn’t believe either, of course, and were searching their apartments to see if they could find some clue to their controllers.

An IM glowed in the corner of her screen: L. Plekhanov, NSA.

Lenny! Aside from being her source for cryptology, and the only reason Arnie Yang could read Daybreak’s messages, Leonardo Plekhanov was also responsible for the last three dates she’d had—each about a month apart. She looked around for his wheelchair, and then spotted the thick, wraparound glasses surrounding Lenny’s outsized square head above his tiny shoulders; she waved, and he raised his small, twisted left arm at her, smiling.

His message said, shitload more relevant stuff 2 read B4 strt. back 2 wrk, Beautiful. Bell Org prolly= no clues.

Okay, this is seriously weird. how U know?

clenched fists, rubbing back of neck, uncanny analyst ability, sherlock holmes-like attn 2 detail!He turned his wheelchair to give her the full effect of his big grin. also i can read the files backward on yr screen cuz not opaqued.

Addressing me as Beautiful is not exactly opaque either.She took the time to type that one all the way out. Hunh. Assuming the whole world didn’t blow apart, wonder if he’s got anywhere to watch the Series tonight, and if he likes brats baked with sauerkraut? And the Angels, of course.

She put her mind back on the briefing; sheesh, her old tai chi coach would be all over her for the bad case of monkey mind she was developing today. Center, breathe, be in the flow…

Heather felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying good coffee in a comfortable chair, reading about Our Man In Jayapura trapped in that office over a bank. The supplementary data noted that he was twenty-seven years old and on his third assignment with the Foreign Service. At least someone else somewhere had an early career experience that actually sucked worse than mine.

The report noted that he’d destroyed the confidential documents and erased all computer files, standard practice for a consul in his situation, and that his morale was assessed as “good to very good” in the circumstances. There’s a relief, Heather thought, some people might think being surrounded by an angry mob in a foreign country might excuse negative thinking. An attachment to the document said that overtime had been authorized since he couldn’t get back to his apartment. Not only is his morale good, he’s getting paid ; can’t do better than that! He had been strongly advised to take all necessary measures for his personal safety. I’m sure he wouldn’t have thought of that on his own.

Indonesian authorities in Jayapura, after much polite demurral and reassurance, had finally admitted that Sentani International Airport had been seized just at twilight, when Islamist rebels had come out of the low hills above the airport and overwhelmed the small security force. A “reinforced national police battalion”—internal security troops with a few light machine guns—had gone out from Jayapura to try to retake the airport, but they had been ambushed and thrown back on the only road around the bay. Unequipped for night fighting, the Indonesian soldiers had dug in for the night and would wait for dawn, when, “if God wills it,” a raider battalion would arrive. There were two links to raider battalion, so she clicked on them; the first explained that raiders were what Indonesia called special forces, and the second that the military attaché at the Embassy in Jakarta thought that an Indonesian raider battalion, assuming one arrived, could probably succeed in retaking the airport, unless of course there were more rebels than he had been told or “other unforeseen circumstances.”

In other words, the government forces will win unless they don’t. Nobody said anything about how the raiders would be getting there, with the airport closed. “Naval units” (but the communiqué didn’t say which ones) were “on their way,” and “we expect a satisfactory resolution within a short time” according to an Indonesian defense spokesman, also in Jakarta—farther from Jayapura than DC is from LA.

Heather scanned the FAQ window ( and just how can any question about this situation be asked “frequently” yet? Illiterates! ). She found timetable.

Two hours before anyone knew that Air Force Two was missing.

Almost five hours before anyone American realized it was probably in hostile hands.

Modified Boeing 787 Dreamliner, cruised at Mach 0.9, fully fueled. Still seven hours flying time left at normal cruise; could reach the opposite side of the planet without refueling.

They had been unable to turn on the secure transponders via satellite, which probably meant Bell had told the other side how to find and destroy them.