One junior analyst’s brief was coverage on camps suspected to be used for the training of terrorists. The project had not yet shown enough results to be treated more importantly, though the data and photographs were passed on to the Task Force on Combating Terrorism. TFCT used the satellite photos, as was the norm in government circles. The staffers oohed and ahhed over the clarity of the shots, were briefed on the new charge-coupled devices that enabled the cameras to get high-resolution pictures despite atmospheric disturbances, noted that, despite all the hoopla, you really couldn’t read the numbers on a license plate — and promptly forgot about them as anything more than pictures of camps where terrorists might be training. Photoreconnaissance interpretation had always been a narrow field for experts only. The analysis work was simply too technical.
And as was so often the case, here was the nib. The junior analyst was better described as a technician. He collected and collated data, but didn’t really analyze it. That was someone else’s job, for when the project was finished. In this particular case the data being processed noted infrared energy. The camps he examined on a daily basis — there were over two hundred — were mainly in deserts. That was remarkably good luck. While everyone knew that deserts suffer from blistering daylight heat, it was less appreciated that they can get quite cold at night — falling below freezing in many cases. So the technician was trying to determine the occupancy of the camps from the number of buildings that were heated during the cool nights. These showed up quite well on the infrared: bright blobs of white on a cold, black background.
A computer stored the digital signals from the satellite. The technician called up the camps by code number, noted the number of heated buildings in each, and transferred the data to a second data file. Camp 11-5-18, located at 28° 32′ 47″ North Latitude, 19° 07′ 52″ East Longitude, had six buildings, one of which was a garage. This one had at least two vehicles in it; though the building was unheated, the thermal signatures of two internal-combustion engines radiated clearly through the corrugated steel roofs. Of the other five buildings, only one had its heater on, the technician noted. The previous week — he checked — three had been warm. The warm one now, the data sheet said, was occupied by a small guard and maintenance group, thought to be five men. It evidently had its own kitchen, since one part of the building was always a little warmer than the rest. Another building was a full-sized dining hall. That and the dormitories were now empty. The technician made the appropriate notations, and the computer assigned them to a simple line graph that peaked when occupancy was high and fell when it was low. The technician didn’t have the time to check the patterns on the graph, but he assumed, wrongly, that someone else did.
“You remember. Lieutenant,” Breckenridge said. “Deep breath, let it half out and squeeeze gently.”
The 9mm Browning automatic had excellent sights. Ryan centered them on the circular target and did what the Gunny said. He did it right. The flash and sound of the shot came almost as a surprise to him. The automatic ejected the spent round and was ready to fire again as Jack brought the pistol down from recoil. He repeated the procedure four more times. The pistol locked open on the empty clip and Ryan set it down. Next he took off the muff-type ear protectors. His ears were sweaty.
“Two nines, three tens, two of them in the X-ring.” Breckenridge stood away from the spotting scope. “Not as good as the last time.”
“My arm’s tired,” Ryan explained. The pistol weighed almost forty ounces. It didn’t seem like much weight until you had to hold it stone-steady at arm’s length for an hour.
“You can get some wrist weights — you know, like joggers use. It’ll build up your forearm and wrist muscles.” Breckenridge slipped five rounds into the clip of Ryan’s pistol and stepped to the line to aim at a fresh target.
The Sergeant Major fined all five in under three seconds. Ryan looked in the spotting scope. There were five holes within the target’s X-ring, clustered like the petals on a flower.
“Damn, I forgot how much fun a nice Browning could be.” He ejected the clip and reloaded. “The sights are right on, too.”
“I noticed,” Jack replied lamely.
“Don’t feel too bad, Lieutenant,” Breckenridge said. “I’ve been doin’ this since you were in diapers.” Five more rounds and the center was effectively removed from the target, fifty feet away.
“Why are we doing round targets anyway?” Jack asked.
“I want you to get used to the idea of placing your shots exactly where you want them to go,” the Gunny explained. “We’ll sweat the fancy stuff later. For now we’ll work on basic skills. You look a little looser today. Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, well, I talked to the FBI guy who originated the warning. Now he says he might have overreacted — maybe I did, too.”
Breckenridge shrugged. “You never been in combat, Lieutenant. I have. One thing you learn: the first twitch you have is usually right. Keep that in mind.”
Jack nodded, not believing it. He’d accomplished much today. His look at the ULA data told him a lot about the organization, but there was not the first inkling that they had ever operated at all in America. The Provisional IRA had plenty of American connections, but no one believed that the ULA did. Even if they planned to do something here, Ryan judged, they’d need the connections. It was possible that O’Donnell might call on some of his previous PIRA friends, but that seemed most unlikely. He was a dangerous man, but only on his own turf. And America wasn’t his turf. That’s what the data said. Jack knew that this was too broad a conclusion to base on one day’s work, of course. He’d keep looking — it seemed that his investigation would last two or three weeks, the way he was going. If nothing else, he wanted to look into the relationship between O’Donnell and the Proves. He did have a feeling that something odd was going on, just as Murray evidently did, and he wanted to examine the data fully, in the hope of coming up with a plausible theory. He owed CIA something for its courtesy.
The storm was magnificent. Miller and O’Donnell stood by the leaded-glass windows and watched as the Atlantic gale beat the sea to foaming waves that slammed against the base of the cliff on which the house stood. The crash of the breaking waves provided the bass notes, while the wind howled and whistled through the trees and raindrops beat their tattoo against the house itself.
“Not a day to be sailing, Sean,” O’Donnell said as he sipped at a whiskey.
“When do our colleagues go to America?”
“Three weeks. Not much time. Do you still want to do it?” The chief of the ULA thought the timing marginal for what Sean planned.
“This is not an opportunity to be missed, Kevin,” Miller answered evenly.
“Do you have another motive?” O’Donnell asked. Better to get it in the open, he decided.
“Consider the ramifications. The Provisionals go over to proclaim their innocence and –”
“Yes, I know. It is a fine opportunity. Very well. When do you want to leave?”
“Wednesday morning. We must move quickly. Even with our contacts, it won’t be easy.”
Chapter 13
Visitors
The two men hunched over the blow-up of the map, flanked by several eight-by-ten photographs.
“This is going to be the hard one,” Alex said. “This one I can’t help you with.”
“What’s the problem?” Scan could see it, but by asking the question he could also gauge the skill of his new associate. He’d never worked with a black before, and though he’d met Alex and members of his group the year before, both were unknown quantities, at least in an operational sense.
“He always comes out by Gate Three, here. This street, as you see, is a dead end. He has to go straight west or turn north coming out. He has done both. This street here is wide enough to do the job from a car, but this one — too narrow, and it leads the wrong way. That means the only sure spot is right here, at the corner. Traffic lights here and here.” Alex pointed. “Both these streets are narrow and always have cars parked on both sides. This building is apartments. These are houses — expensive ones. There isn’t much pedestrian traffic here, oddly enough. One man can probably get by. Two or more, uh-uh.” He shook his head. “And it’s a white area. A black man would be conspicuous. Your guy has to wing this one alone, pal, and he’s gotta be on foot. Probably inside this door is the best place, but he’ll have to be on his toes or the target will get away.”