“Take a seat,” said Malloy.
His office was an open desk on a raised platform in the middle of the operations center. From it, he surveyed an impressive array of computer monitors, video screens, and high-tech gadgetry running 360 degrees around him, allowing him to supervise all real-time collection of data carried out by satellites tasked to the NGA.
“I came to ask a favor,” said Connor as he pulled his chair closer.
Malloy smiled uneasily. “I figured as much. I heard about your promotion, too.”
Connor leaned closer and explained about the cruise missile that had been lost when an air force B-52 went down in the Hindu Kush in May 1984. “We believe that someone’s found it and may be trying to sell it on the black market to a rogue nation or fundamentalist cell.”
“How good is your intel?”
“Near-actionable. The problem is, I don’t know exactly where the bomber went down.”
“With all due respect,” said Malloy, “why am I hearing this from you? Seems to me that if we’re talking about a nuclear-tipped ALCM, I should be fielding calls from Langley, the Joint Chiefs, and maybe even the commander in chief himself.”
“There are other issues.”
“Such as?”
“The incident was hushed up by the air force. As far as they’re concerned, the missile is sitting at the bottom of a thousand-foot crevasse. It’s not something they’re eager to see dredged up. Anyway, I’m not quite there yet. For all I know, the whole thing could turn out to be a wild goose chase.”
“But you don’t think so.”
Connor shrugged. “I’m here.”
Malloy considered this. “What is it you need from me?”
Connor started him off easy so as not to scare him away. “Historical data. I need you to check and see if you have any imagery for the area dating from May 1984. I’m looking for evidence of a plane crash.”
“In those mountains? You’re talking about a couple of thousand square miles. That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. You’re going to have to give me something more specific.”
Connor removed a folder from his battered satchel. The topmost sheet held the final map grid coordinates to which the air force had narrowed its search.
“Better,” said Malloy. “So we’re talking a fifty-square-mile search grid right smack on the border of Afghanistan. As I recall, there was something big going down in that part of the world in ’eighty-four.”
“The Russian invasion was at its peak. The Red Army had a hundred and twenty thousand men stationed in the country. It was about then that the agency started supplying arms to the mujahideen. It pays to think we had at least one bird making a pass somewhere in the region every day.”
Malloy typed a stream of commands into his workstation. “No go,” he said, frowning.
“What’s the matter?”
“Too long ago. In terms of satellite imagery, 1984 was the dark ages. We were transitioning from wet film to digital technology. Up to ’eighty-three, our birds would take pictures on good old Kodak film. There was no such thing as real time. The best you could hope for was a three-day lag. More realistically, you’d get your pictures in a week or longer. The pictures aren’t here anymore.”
“But someone did keep them?” asked Connor, who knew a thing or two about bureaucratic incompetence.
“Absolutely, but not here. We need to hit the archives. Time to get off that fat butt of yours, Frank, and do a little PT.”
“Fantastic,” said Connor, groaning as he pushed himself out of the chair and lumbered after Malloy.
Their destination was a suite of offices on the fifth floor. “Back in ’eighty-four, this place went by the name of Comirex-the Committee on Imagery Requirements and Exploitation,” said Malloy as he powered up a workstation. “It was a black organization. Totally off the books. Since then we’ve changed names too many times to count. Now that we’ve got it down to three initials, everyone’s happy. NGA sits at the top table with the CIA, DHS, FBI, NSA, and all the other big shots.” He hit Enter and sat back. “Okay, here we are… Looks like we had four birds covering Afghanistan. Two were push brooms-they flew over the area with their apertures open wide and snapped pictures of everything. They won’t help. We need to drill down further. This is better. The other two were in geostationary orbit, maintaining a static post above their targets twenty-four-seven.” Malloy punched in some more commands. “Here we go. This bird was in your area. Looks like it was taking pics of a supply route over the mountains.”
The picture on the screen showed a section of earth from a high altitude. He saw a few black rectangles in one corner and lots and lots of mountains. Malloy refined the grid coordinates and the picture zoomed in on a section of mountainous terrain. “Bingo,” he said. “That’s where the flyboys were looking. No wonder they didn’t have any luck.”
“And that photograph is from May thirtieth or thirty-first?”
Malloy studied the screen, then scrunched up his nose. “Strange. I requested a pic from May thirtieth, but it shot back to the twenty-eighth. Let me try again.” Malloy repeated his commands and the same picture reappeared. He typed some more, then raised his hands over his head, blowing air through his teeth. “Every time I request a picture between May thirtieth and September thirtieth, it kicks me back to the twenty-eighth.”
“Of May? Is that normal?”
“Hell no, it’s not normal,” retorted Malloy. “If that satellite was up in the air, it should have been sending back pictures every minute of every goddamned day.”
“When do the pictures go current again?”
Malloy banged at the keyboard, his frustration mounting. “October first.”
“October first? That’s a long time for a satellite to be out of operation.” Connor studied the image. Approximately 120 days’ worth of photographic evidence was missing. He reasoned it was during that period that the air force had found the plane, or its debris, and destroyed it. “Snow,” he said. “The crash site is entirely covered. I guess that somebody wanted to make sure that no one found that plane.”
Malloy rolled back his chair. “Sorry, Frank. I can’t help.”
“Don’t be,” said Connor. “Now we know where to look. An area twenty square miles shouldn’t be beyond our capabilities.”
“But it’s November. There’s already a ton of snow up there. Even if the plane were still there, we wouldn’t be able to see it.”
“I don’t expect to find the plane or the missile. I’m looking for the people trying to recover it.”
Malloy turned to face him. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
“It will only take an hour’s time.”
“No, Frank. Absolutely not. I can’t task a bird to cover that area.”
“Actually, you can. You’re the watch officer. You’re the only person who can override any of the flight programs.”
“Every satellite has been tasked out months ahead of time. Every minute of every day for the next two years of their flight time has been reserved and accounted for. We have clients who depend on these images. You’re talking about compromising national security.”
“I’d say my actions fall into the opposite category-ensuring our national security. Look, it’ll only take a few minutes.”
“And what am I supposed to say to the boys at the CIA or CENTCOM or whoever I steal a bird from?”
“Say it broke down. It does happen.”
“All the time,” said Malloy. “And afterward, about a dozen pencil-pushers from Lockheed Martin and DOD descend on the place like a bunch of screaming blue meanies to find out why. Listen to me, Frank. Every keystroke on every workstation in this place is recorded. It will take exactly five minutes for them to discover that it was me who issued the override commands and interrupted a defined surveillance program. This isn’t taking your daddy’s Ford out for a joyride. You’re talking about hijacking a billion-dollar piece of equipment. Why don’t you get a Predator and fly it up there? Hell, that’d be easier than this.”