The KH-12 had been the designated workhorse for the Intelligence Community in the ’90s. When launched, it weighed more than seven tons. Most of that was an excess of fuel, which allowed the satellite to maneuver extensively while in orbit, to reach areas of greater interest. It could be serviced and refueled by the space shuttle. This particular satellite had sophisticated optics that digitally enhanced any images before relaying them to Earth, to provide full-spectrum image Intelligence data virtually instantaneously. It had high-res infrared imaging technology, capable of detecting camouflage and buried structures, with an image resolution of less than ten centimeters. An astounding feat, really, but nothing in comparison to what the KH-14’s and the new ORION’s could do. Richard would still be glad to have anything a KH-12 might have picked up.
“Well, now what?” asked McMurray when he hung up. Richard shrugged. He was about to suggest that a cold beer would be nice when he was hailed by one of the Night Hawk captains.
“We’ve been ordered to hang around,” Second Lieutenant George Clinton of the US Navy told them. “Two of the choppers are staying on the ground, and when we get the order we’re supposed to take you to an undisclosed location. Weird fucking orders, but apparently Langley’s involved, so that would explain it. Don’t go far,” he warned, smiling.
“Yeah, right,” laughed Richard. “I’m heading for the nearest sports bar to have a cold beer with the good Sergeant here.” He pounded McMurray on the back.
“Nah, I’ll be in southern Arizona,” replied McMurray. “Golf. Beaches. Wife and kids. The works.” They all laughed and hunkered down in the shade of the Night Hawk, trying to pretend they were anywhere other than the middle of the Sahara Desert.
So you know this Goldberg?” asked McMurray. Richard had just finished filling him in on his telephone conversation with the new Washington Intelligence Agency.
“Yeah. He’s kind of like a brother,” said Richard. “We grew up together. His family took me in when my parents died in an accident in Pakistan. Then we served together. Crossed paths often. We both ended up in Islamabad, which is home for me, really. Haven’t seen Zak in years. He’s in deep cover somewhere in the Middle East. Went under about four years ago. Can’t really say more about it than that.”
McMurray could see that Richard was concerned. There were deep grooves carved into his brow, and he was speaking too quickly. His hand was automatically reaching for some sort of pain medication in his pocket. Not that he blamed the man. News of the Goldberg memo had spread far and wide within the Intelligence and military communities. There were no illusions about what it might mean… or the obvious danger Zak was facing.
Gleaning meaningful information from satellite imaging systems was a black art, studied by many and mastered by only a few. Martin Kingston had a knack for it. He loved it. What to the untrained eye was just a blur inside a shadow, a dark spot inside a smudge, was to Kingston a vehicle. Beyond that, it was a Ford or a Chevy, a model, and sometimes even a color. He boasted that someday he would even be able to read the serial numbers of cars found in this way. On the ORION’s, the image resolution was less than three centimeters. Now the scientists at the NRO and NASA were working on resolutions of one centimeter. Before long they would have Hubble-type telescope satellites, pointed back at Earth. Kingston joked that soon they’d be reading briefing notes from space, and that using infrared, the government could have a detailed account of who was having sex with whom, at any given moment. A brave new world indeed.
Kingston quickly determined, through the Master Progressive Scan Imaging Database (MP-Sid to those who knew it personally), which satellites had been scanning the area and time frame Richard needed. Three satellites — KH-11/02B, KH-12/021B, and KH-13/002—would have taken, in rapid succession, digital images of the desert sands of Zighan, at the very edge of their focusing area. He divided each satellite’s footage into four three-hour segments, and collared 12 of his coworkers to analyze, frame by frame if necessary, the appropriate area.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but IMINT personnel had received assignments like this many times before. “Find out where Yeltsin’s plane was yesterday afternoon,” they had been told. “Find out if there was an explosion at such-and-such a place three days ago,” or “Find out how many tanks were at this location in North Korea at this time.” Many years earlier, when the art was still in its infancy, and the equipment was of Stone Age caliber, one President had tested a boast from a four-star General of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“OK,” the President had joked. “A couple of my cows found a break in a fence, and disappeared into the Texas Mesa. Find them.”
And IMINT had. Finding a DC-3 would not be that big a problem for them. Once the workload had been appropriately segmented, the assignment wouldn’t take long at all.
As expected, Richard’s Thuraya rang within an hour.
“Lawrence,” he answered sharply, holding his head. Standing in the 120-degree heat of one of the largest deserts in the world, dealing with this situation, was doing nothing for the pounding taking place inside his skull.
“Richard, this is Captain Kingston from the NGA,” Kingston said. “I think we’ve got it. We’ve compared and isolated more than 500 frames from the area in question. A DC-3 did arrive at the Zighan airstrip sometime between 7 and 9pm, local time. It left around midnight. We have a couple of thermal scans that show maybe four or five individuals in the area just before then. They may have been loading or unloading cargo. We’re not sure.”
“Can you tell where the plane came from?” asked Richard.
“We can’t. But there are a couple of frames that tell us which direction it went.”
“Where?”
“It headed south by southeast.” Kingston gave Richard the exact coordinates.
“Any idea where it landed, or where it was heading?”
“No, sorry. It headed toward the Sudan, but we didn’t have any satellites scanning northwest Darfur during the time frame when it would have landed. You’re on your own on that one,” said Kingston.
“OK,” said Richard. “But maybe you could help me with one more thing. Your computers have access to a lot of image and mapping data. Given the vector of the DC-3, is it possible to draw up a list of places they might have been heading? Are there any landing strips in Darfur along the path they were taking? Options for us to check out?”
“Well, we could check that,” replied Kingston. “But it would take us awhile. The boys at TTIC could get it to you faster. They have access to an incredible pile of information, way more than us. And they have this monster interactive map, all done digitally. I haven’t seen it, but I’ve heard what it can do.”
“TTIC? I think I talked to them earlier. Aren’t they the ones who figured out the Madrid thing before Madrid figured it out?”
“Yeah, that’s them. Kind of an odd group of people, but they have access to pretty much everything. Their supercomputer is as powerful as the ones at the NSA. I’m going to see if I can put you through directly. Need to get authority. Hang on.”
Kingston called the head of IMINT, who called the DDCI’s office. Admiral Jackson called TTIC immediately.
Johnson answered. “TTIC control.”
The Admiral identified himself. Johnson nearly dropped his coffee in his lap when he heard the name. Big Jack. He straightened up instantly. “How can we be of assistance, sir?” he asked.