The Armageddon Virus - Chapter 1

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Tuesday, July 7th, 2004


“HOLD THE ELEVATOR!”

FBI Special Assistant to the Directorate of Intelligence Jake Sutton darted through the large rotating glass doors into the lobby of the George Bush Center for Intelligence in Langley, Virginia, bellowing at several men boarding the lone elevator in this section of the building. The politically correct visitors’ brochures strewn about a small table just inside the lobby referred to this section of the building as the Original CIA Headquarters Building, but those who frequent the nerve center of the CIA just call it the “old building”. Sutton flashed his credentials to the security guards standing immediately inside the building who quickly nodded approval - they no longer needed to see Sutton’s CIA security clearance ID and FBI badge to grant him entrance. His numerous visits over the past eighteen months had made him readily recognizable to the guards, but with the lessons of the Oklahoma City federal building and 9/11 attacks still scorched in the collective memory of the United States, shortcuts around security procedures were grounds for instant termination. Sutton respectfully nodded back to the guards as he charged through the metal detector that greeted visitors just inside the lobby. The detector flashed and buzzed, warning of his FBI standard issue .38 pistol planted snug against his body, as he headed for the elevator.

“PLEASE HOLD THE ELEVATOR!” he barked again as the elevator doors began to slide shut. His dark brown suit coat was unbuttoned and flapping like a superhero’s cape behind him as he quickened his already hastened pace. His long legs - matching his intimidating six-four—two hundred fifteen pound frame, provided him a wide stride that served his purpose.

The men on the elevator continued to ignore his pleas, acting as if they hadn’t heard him calling and didn’t notice him scampering towards them. Sutton sprinted the last few yards to the elevator, reaching out with his briefcase and wedging it between the door and wall just in time to prevent it from closing. The door promptly stopped and reopened when it made contact with the briefcase. Sutton offered the men a victorious smirk as he stepped onto the elevator, annoyed but not surprised they hadn’t attempted to wait for him. Piece of shit CIA assholes, he said to himself. The door began to close again as the men begrudgingly shuffled back to make room.

Sutton snaked his arm around the front of a man wearing a swank dark-blue pin stripped suit standing to his right and firmly stabbed the button for the sixth floor. The man shot him a vexed glare. He returned it with a twinge in his eye. No pretentious CIA asshole would ever intimidate him again. After the door shut the elevator quietly began its ascent, coming to a stop only one floor up, which elicited a disgusted groan from Sutton. A short, stocky man, also sporting a freshly pressed dark suit of noticeably impeccable quality, pushed his way from the back of the elevator and exited. Lazy ass CIA bureaucrat, he thought again, unconsciously shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Punctuality was a trait Sutton was well known for, and the fact that he was now thirty minutes late for the monthly Intelligence Sharing & Alignment Committee (I-SAC) meeting had wrecked his patience. After a long ten seconds the door shut and the elevator once again began climbing, this time stopping at the fifth floor, where all but Sutton got off.

Sutton was headed to what he hoped would be his last I-SAC briefing. He had officially requested to be relieved of his I-SAC duties three weeks ago and was expecting word of his reassignment back to the field as an FBI special agent any day. He had served as the FBI’s I-SAC representative since it created by an executive order issued by President Landon just over eighteen months ago. The President had issued the order in response to congressional and media criticism of the lack of cooperation and coordination among the various federal intelligence-gathering agencies. The scrutiny had started soon after the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon when it was discovered that each of the agencies possessed bits of intelligence that, if pieced together and analyzed as a whole, may have lead to the prevention of the attacks. Virtually every respected intelligence expert in the United States considered it unlikely that the existence of such a committee would have done much, if anything, to thwart the attacks, but once the media planted the seed, pandering politicians eager to show their constituents how serious they were at fighting terrorism quickly provided the fertilizer. After weeks of televised House and Senate hearings and scathing newspaper editorials, the President propitiated and issued the order creating the committee. The order required, among several vague demands of a “spirit of cooperation and teamwork”, joint monthly intelligence sharing briefings from the CIA, Pentagon, NSA, and FBI, all of which had long conducted independent intelligence gathering operations.

I-SAC proved to be something very different than what Sutton envisioned. Different and disappointing. The first few meetings were well attended and included several high-ranking officials including the Directors of the FBI and CIA, the President’s National Security Advisor, the chairmen the Senate Intelligence and Armed Services Committees, members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Secretaries of Defense and State. Sutton relished the opportunity to rub elbows with the panjandrum of Washington while serving in a key position with the FBI. It was why he left the local FBI office in Little Rock, Arkansas, to come to Washington three years ago to work in the counterterrorism unit.

Once in D.C. Sutton quickly distinguished himself from the other agents in couterterrorism and was a shoe in for any promotion he desired. His FBI bosses and co-agents where surprised when he expressed interest in the I-SAC position. His fellow FBI agents viewed intelligence analysis as boring and wimpy—real FBI men wanted to be in the field gathering the intelligence and busting the bad guys. But Sutton didn’t care to follow the normal career path of the FBI’s most talented special agents, most of whom, it seemed to him, ended up being chained to a desk pushing paper, writing reports detailing progress on cases other agents where investigating but they were still responsible for, and arguing about inane budgetary and administrative issues. He had expected I-SAC to give him the best of both worlds; career advancement while maintaining the excitement and fulfillment of his sense of duty to his country he had joined the FBI for.

His zeal soon began to wane as the media attention diminished in the months following the first few meetings. The number of dignitaries and top brass attending the meetings dwindled, leaving them to aides and assistants. Now, after eighteen meetings, the only regular attendees were the representatives from the FBI, CIA, NSA, and Pentagon; the only agencies the presidential order actually required to be there. I-SAC had degenerated into little more than an exchange of tersely worded written briefings. Discussions among the small group involving the subject matter of the briefings had become a three-way chess game, with each agency trying to capture more information from the other agencies than they gave up. The FBI had actually begun to coach Sutton on how to ask open-ended questions designed to divulge information from his I-SAC counterparts and how to respond to questions without really answering them. In an uncomfortable kind of way it reminded him of the enemy interrogation training he received as a young officer in the army fifteen years ago.

After reaching the sixth floor Sutton rushed to the conference room where the briefing was already in progress. He suddenly began to wonder why he felt the need to hurry; they usually spent the first half of the meeting bullshitting about their golf games, the Redskins’ off-season dealings, or the Orioles diminishing pennant prospects. The second half was often even more inconsequential.

As he finally entered the conference room he was surprised to see nearly every chair around the large elliptical shaped conference room table with a body in it. Colonel Richard Sanchez, the pentagon’s hard-nosed I-SAC representative, was sitting at the head of the table with the overhead projector on. As Sutton hurried to an open chair he noted the presence of Casandra Hampton, the National Security Advisor, as well as the Assistant Secretary of State, Bradly Smith, in addition to a handful of others he remembered seeing in previous meetings but could not quickly put a name to. He was about to offer an apology for his tardiness when Riley Carter, the CIA’s I-SAC rep, noticed him.

“Jake, glad you made it” Carter said as Jake placed his briefcase on the table beside him. Sutton opened the briefcase and retrieved a manila folder containing the FBI’s contribution to the meeting and a padfolio.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was horrible—worse than usual, if you can believe that.” Sutton continued scanning the room.

“I can believe it” Carter offered. “It seems as though people forget how to drive over long holiday weekends. It takes them a week or so to get back in the grove I guess.” Carter earned sparse chuckles for his reference to the recent Fourth of July holiday as Sutton took his seat.

“I notice some faces I haven’t seen here in a while. Are we taking roll now?” Sutton sardonically chided.

Only Carter offered a polite laugh. “Not exactly Jake. Remember the mention of unusual Iranian troop movements in last months Pentagon briefing?”

“Sure.” Sutton said questioningly, noticing the mood in the room seemed tense, or maybe reserved, or perhaps it was just focused.

“Well, Colonel Sanchez was just giving us an interesting update.” Carter paused and turned his head to Colonel Sanchez, as if he were turning the floor over to him. The Colonel stood from his chair and walked over to Sutton, the numerous medals and colorful ribbons jingling in sync with every step, and handed him the pentagon’s I-SAC briefing. Sutton thanked the dark-skinned, physically impressive Colonel who nodded and returned to his chair.

“As you were saying, Colonel.” National Security Advisor Casandra Hampton said impatiently, attempting to keep the meeting on track.

“As I was saying, we have now noted the repositioning of seven Iranian Basij light infantry battalions around the city of Tabriz.” Colonel Sanchez pointed to the northwestern Iranian city on a transparent map the overhead was projecting onto the wall behind him. The map denoted troop positions with red dots that formed a rough circle. “As we covered last week, for those of you who were not here and do not know, Tabriz is the capital of the Azerbiajan province of Iran and has an estimated population of close to one and a half million. The troops have formed a one hundred fifty mile perimeter around the city and several smaller nearby villages. The perimeter also encompasses a suspected terrorists’ camp thirty-five miles to the west of the city near lake Urmia. Hopefully agent Carter was able to prepare a briefing to enlighten us about this camp as was requested during last month’s meeting.”

Colonel Sanchez swung his dour stare in the direction of Riley Carter. He was less than impressed with the bumbling CIA agent, which was obvious to everyone except Carter. The pentagon had chosen one of its most fiercely loyal and toughest Colonel’s to be its I-SAC rep for a reason; they were not going to come out on the short-end of the I-SAC stick. The CIA had chosen Riley Carter for the same purpose, but with opposite logic. Carter was supine and possessed barely average intelligence. They could count on him to not know much, other than what was in the briefing they prepared for him, thereby lowering the risk of the other agencies getting accolades from intelligence the CIA had earned. Carter’s I-SAC meeting summaries where generally disregarded by the CIA, although they often proved hilarious to the few who did read them. The CIA relied on a transcript prepared from a bug planted in the meeting room; just in case someone slipped-up and uttered something of substance.

“Aaaa…we didn’t have enough time to include that information in this months briefing, Colonel,” Carter rejoined. “But I’ll be sure to include it in the next briefing.”

“How about a supplemental briefing next week, Agent Carter? A month is a long time to wait when we don’t know what is going on over there.” Casandra Hampton glared at the CIA agent.

“Yes…of course…I’ll make it a top priority,” Carter pleasantly agreed, but was thinking the bitch had no authority to order him to do anything. It wasn’t really up to him anyway, and she surely didn’t have the gall to think she could order the entire CIA around.

Colonel Sanchez nodded his approval to Hampton as he turned back to the overhead. “Out latest satellite analysis indicates movements of heavy assets away from the rebuilding efforts in Kamen towards the Tabriz perimeter.”

“Heavy assets?” questioned the man sitting directly to Sutton’s right with a puzzled look on his face. He suddenly remembered the man’s name, Ron Rose. He was an aid to Senator Clayton James, from Texas, who was a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee. “Military assets?”

“No. Our analysis indicates excavation assets. They had a concentration of these assets in Kamen after the quake in 2003 and hadn’t moved them since.”

Mr. Rose maintained his perplexed look.

“You know…bull dozers, dump trucks, backhoes.” Colonel Sanchez stated with more than a hint of sarcasms.

“I know what excavation assets are, Colonel. I was just wondering what all of this means,” Rose responded, ignoring the Colonel’s tone.

“That is the question, Mr. Rose.” Colonel Sanchez coldly stated as he sat back in his chair and looked in the direction of Sutton and Carter. “Were either of you able to find out if the FBI or CIA have any spies or informants embedded in that area of Iran?”

“The FBI doesn’t, at least that I was able to discover. It was difficult to get a straight answer—to be honest—but I don’t believe we do.” Sutton said, turning to look at Carter.

“Neither does the CIA. We do of course have a network of informants in Iran, but nothing rising to the level of a spy within the government, and not in the Tabriz area at any rate.” Carter stated.

There was a brief pause before CIA agent Nick Larson, seated at the far end of the table, spoke. Sutton hadn’t noticed agent Larson. He was a highly regarded Middle-Eastern specialist with the CIA who had served as a covert operative in Iran during the Iran-Iraq war during the eighties.

“Actually—we do Riley,” agent Larson corrected. The others in the office turned to look at the agent who had been silent until now. “We normally get at least bi-monthly reports from a Turkish informant living in Tabriz. The informant isn’t a government official and has little access to classified information. He basically just informs us of the anti-governmental activities he is engaged in and of other general information. Nothing of significant value. However, we haven’t heard from him for over five months now.”

“He hadn’t reported anything out of the ordinary before you lost contact with him then?” Colonel Sanchez questioned.

“No. Nothing.”

“What are the possibilities then—do we have any good guesses or operating theories?” Bradley Smith asked. “Do we know if there has been another earthquake? Quakes are common in the Azerbaijan province aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Colonel Sanchez answered patly.

“Yes-what, Colonel?” Smith was annoyed.

“Yes we know if there has been another earthquake…and no, there hasn’t been.”

“We would all know if they had another earthquake. You can’t keep that a secret,” Sutton interposed, thinking a high level state department official should know that.

Smith glared at the Colonel. “Then what does the Pentagon think is going on?”

“We don’t know…and we don’t guess.”

“Since when?” Smith felt anger rise-up within him. Colonel Sanchez was one of his least favorite “pen heads”, as state department personnel referred to their rivals in the pentagon. They had had many run-ins in the past and Smith’s disdain for the Colonel was equaled by the Colonel’s contempt for him.

“Gentlemen, please, can we dispense with the hostilities?” Casandra Hampton stated if the form of a question, but with the effect of a demand. “Colonel, does the Pentagon think this is in anyway a threat to our forces in Iraq?”

“We do not feel like this is an aggressive move against our forces. The current composition of the Iranian troops is not sufficient for an invasion of Iraq and the troops are not taking a defensive posture along the Iraq border. Just around Tabriz and the surrounding area.”

“Could be a nuclear accident,” Sutton uncharacteristically blurted out. He wasn’t one given to thinking out-loud and spoke only when he had something to say and was sure it was correct. He tended to approach listening to the others with the same rules…only paying attention when someone had something to say and he trusted it was correct.

“Yes!” Casandra Hampton said firmly, sitting up in her chair. A sudden “Eureka!” attitude took over her persona. “We know they have a nuclear weapons program…this is probably the result of a mishap involving--.”

“I wasn’t necessarily referring to nuclear weapons,” Sutton quickly interjected; disturbed his off-handed remark was being twisted to fit Hampton’s agenda. “The Iranians have been pursuing legitimate uses of nuclear power for many years. We know they are building a nuclear power plant with Russian help in Bushehr. How do we know the Iranians aren’t trying to build one on their own in Tabriz?” Conjecture. Again. These meetings where for sharing intelligence, not brainstorming. Sutton thought his mind must already be on the plane out of Washington.

“That is actually much more likely,” agreed agent Larson. “The Iranians’ nuclear weapons program is still in its infancy—it is very unlikely they are at a point where they are attempting to introduce enriched uranium into the process. And none of our intelligence indicates such work is being done in the northwest region of Iran.”

“But wouldn’t the Iranian government ask for help if it was just an accident involving something legitimate, like they did with the Kamen quake…why would they want to keep something like that a secret?” Casandra Hampton questioned.

“They wouldn’t.” Colonel Sanchez jumped back into the conversation.

“I agree,” Hampton stated, nodding and scanning the room for others in agreement.

Sutton sat back in his chair—the irony of it all suddenly hitting him. Now that he was here for what would probably be his last I-SAC meeting, things were starting to heat up and even threatening to be interesting. He consoled himself with the knowledge that it would probably soon fizzle after more facts about the current situation became known and each agency began forming a scenario out of the information to serve their own objectives. He slowly lost interest in the conversation and began thinking about packing for the trip to his new home, wherever that may be.