The Doomsday Conspiracy

Chapter Three

Ottawa, Canada 2400 Hours

His code name was Janus. He was addressing twelve men in the heavily guarded room of a military compound.

“As you have all been informed, Operation Doomsday has been activated. There are a number of witnesses who must be found as quickly and as quietly as possible. We are not able to attempt to track them down through regular security channels because of the danger of a leak.”

“Who are we using?” The Russian. Huge. Short-tempered.

“His name is Commander Robert Bellamy.”

“How was he selected?” The German. Aristocratic. Ruthless.

“The commander was chosen after a thorough computer search of the files of the CIA, FBI, and a half dozen other security agencies.”

“Please, may I inquire what are his qualifications?” The Japanese. Polite. Sly.

“Commander Bellamy is an experienced field officer who speaks six languages fluently and has an exemplary record. Again and again he has proved himself to be very resourceful. He has no living relatives.”

“Is he aware of the urgency of this?” The Englishman. Snobbish. Dangerous.

“He is. We have every expectation that he will be able to locate all the witnesses very quickly.”

“Does he understand the purpose of his mission?” The Frenchman. Argumentative. Stubborn.

“No.”

“And when he has found the witnesses?” The Chinese. Clever. Patient.

“He will be suitably rewarded.”

Chapter Four

The headquarters of the Office of Naval Intelligence occupies the entire fifth floor of the sprawling Pentagon, an enclave in the middle of the largest office building in the world, with seventeen miles of corridors and twenty-nine thousand military and civilian employees.

The interior of the Office of Naval Intelligence reflects its seagoing traditions. The desks and file cabinets are either olive green, from the World War II era, or battleship gray, from the Vietnam era. The walls and ceilings are painted a buff or cream color. In the beginning, Robert had been put off by the Spartan decor, but he had long since grown accustomed to it.

Now, as he walked into the building and approached the reception desk, the familiar guard at the desk said, “Good morning, Commander. May I see your pass?”

Robert had been working here for seven years, but the ritual never changed. He dutifully displayed his pass.

“Thank you, Commander.”

On his way to his office, Robert thought about Captain Dougherty, waiting for him in the parking lot at the river entrance. Waiting to escort him to the plane that would fly him to Switzerland to begin an impossible hunt.

When Robert reached his office, his secretary, Barbara, was already there.

“Good morning, Commander. The deputy director would like to see you in his office.”

“He can wait. Get me Admiral Whittaker, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

A minute later Robert was speaking with the admiral.

“I presume you have finished your meeting, Robert?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“How did it go?”

“It was—interesting. Are you free to join me for breakfast, Admiral?” He tried to keep his voice casual.

There was no hesitation. “Yes. Shall we meet there?”

“Fine. I’ll leave a visitors’ pass for you.”

“Very well. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Robert replaced the receiver and thought, It’s ironic that I have to leave a visitors’ pass for the admiral. A few years ago, he was the fairhaired boy here, in charge of Naval Intelligence. How must he feel?

Robert buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

“Yes, Commander?”

“I’m expecting Admiral Whittaker. Arrange a pass for him.”

“I’ll take care of it right away.”

It was time to report to the deputy director. Dustin fucking Thornton.

Chapter Five

Dustin “Dusty” Thornton, deputy director of the Office of Naval Intelligence, had won his fame as one of the greatest athletes ever to come out of Annapolis. Thornton owed his present exalted position to a football game. An Army-Navy game, to be precise. Thornton, a towering monolith of a man, had played fullback as a senior at Annapolis in Navy’s most important game of the year. At the beginning of the fourth quarter, with Army leading 13–0, two touch-downs and a conversion ahead, destiny stepped in and changed Dustin Thornton’s life. Thornton intercepted an Army pass, pivoted around, and charged through the Army phalanx for a touchdown. Navy missed on the extra point but soon scored a field goal. After the ensuing kick-off, Army failed to make a first down and punted into Navy territory. The score stood at Army 13, Navy 9, and the clock was running.

When play resumed, the ball was passed to Thornton, and he went down under a heap of Army uniforms. It took him a long time to get to his feet. A doctor came running out onto the field. Thornton angrily waved him away.

With seconds left to play, signals were called for a lateral pass. Thornton caught it on his own ten yard line and took off. He was unstoppable. He charged through the opposition like a tank, knocking down everyone unlucky enough to get in his way. With two seconds to go, Thornton crossed the goal line for the winning touchdown, and Navy scored its first victory against Army in four years. That, in itself, would have had little effect on Thornton’s life. What made the event significant was that seated in a box reserved for VIPs were Willard Stone and his daughter, Eleanor. As the crowd rose to its feet, wildly cheering the Navy hero, Eleanor turned to her father and said quietly, “I want to meet him.”

Eleanor Stone was a woman of large appetites. Plain-faced, she had a voluptuous body and an insatiable libido. Watching Dustin Thornton savagely plow his way down the football field, she fantasized what he would be like in bed. If his manhood was as big as the rest of his body … She was not disappointed.

Six months later, Eleanor and Dustin Thornton were married. That was the beginning. Dustin Thornton went to work for his father-in-law and was inducted into an arcane world he had not dreamed existed.

Willard Stone, Thornton’s new father-in-law, was a man of mystery. A billionaire with powerful political connections and a past shrouded in secrecy, he was a shadowy figure who pulled strings in capitals all over the world. He was in his late sixties, a meticulous man whose every movement was precise and methodical. He had razorsharp features and hooded eyes that revealed nothing. Willard Stone believed in wasting neither words nor emotions, and he was ruthless in obtaining what he wanted.

The rumors about him were fascinating. He was reported to have murdered a competitor in Malaysia and to have had a torrid affair with the favorite wife of an emir. He was said to have backed a successful revolution in Nigeria. The government had brought half a dozen indictments against him, but they were always mysteriously dropped. There were tales of bribes, and senators suborned, business secrets stolen, and witnesses who disappeared. Stone was an adviser to presidents and kings. He was raw, naked power. Among his many properties was a large, isolated estate in the Colorado mountains where every year scientists, captains of industry, and world leaders gathered for seminars. Armed guards kept out unwanted visitors.

Willard Stone had not only approved his daughter’s marriage, he had encouraged it. His new son-in-law was brilliant, ambitious, and most important, malleable.

Twelve years after the marriage, Stone arranged for Dustin to be appointed ambassador to South Korea. Several years later, the President appointed him ambassador to the United Nations. When Admiral Ralph Whittaker was suddenly ousted as acting director of ONI, Thornton took his place.

That day Willard Stone sent for his son-in-law.

“This is merely the beginning,” Stone promised. “I have bigger plans for you, Dustin. Great plans.” And he had proceeded to outline them.

Two years earlier, Robert had had his first meeting with the new acting director of ONI.

“Sit down, Commander.” There was no cordiality in Dustin Thornton’s voice. “I see by your record that you’re something of a maverick.”

What the hell does he mean? Robert wondered. He decided to keep his mouth shut.

Thornton looked up. “I don’t know how Admiral Whittaker ran this office when he was in charge, but from now on we’re doing everything by the book. I expect my orders to be carried out to the letter. Do I make myself clear?”

Jesus, Robert thought, what the hell are we in for here?

“Do I make myself clear, Commander?”

“Yes. You expect your orders to be carried out to the letter.” He wondered whether he was expected to salute.

“That’s all.”

But it was not all.

A month later, Robert was sent to East Germany to bring in a scientist who wanted to defect. It was a dangerous assignment because Stasi, the East German secret police, had learned about the proposed defection and was watching the scientist closely. In spite of that, Robert had managed to smuggle the man across the border, to a safe house. He was making arrangements to bring him to Washington when he received a call from Dustin Thornton telling him that the situation had changed and that he was to drop the assignment.

“We can’t just dump him here,” Robert had protested. “They’ll kill him.”

“That’s his problem,” Thornton had replied. “Your orders are to come back home.”

Screw you, Robert thought. I’m not going to abandon him. He had called a friend of his in MI6, British Intelligence, and explained the situation.

“If he goes back to East Germany,” Robert said, “they’ll chop him. Will you take him?”

“I’ll see what can be done, old chap. Bring him along.”

And the scientist had been given haven in England.

Dustin Thornton never forgave Robert for disobeying his instructions. From that point on, there was open animosity between the two men. Thornton had discussed the incident with his father-in-law.

“Loose cannons like Bellamy are dangerous,” Willard Stone warned. “They’re a security hazard. Men like that are expendable. Remember that.”

And Thornton had remembered.

Now, walking down the corridor toward Dustin Thornton’s office, Robert could not help thinking about the difference between Thornton and Whittaker. In a job like his, trust was the sine qua non. He did not trust Dustin Thornton.

Thornton was seated behind his desk when Robert walked into his office.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Sit down, Commander.” Their relationship had never reached the “Robert” phase.

“I’ve been told you’ve been temporarily transferred to the National Security Agency. When you come back, I have a—”

“I’m not coming back. This is my last assignment.”

“What?”

“I’m quitting.”

Thinking about it later, Robert was not sure exactly what reaction he had expected. Some kind of scene. Dustin Thornton could have shown surprise, or he could have argued, or been angry, or relieved. Instead, he had merely looked at Robert and nodded. “That’s it then, isn’t it?”

When Robert returned to his own office, he said to his secretary, “I’m going to be away for a while. I’ll be leaving in about an hour.”

“Is there some place where you can be reached?”

Robert remembered General Hilliard’s orders. “No.”

“There are some meetings you—”

“Cancel them.” He looked at his watch. It was time to meet Admiral Whittaker.

They had breakfast in the center yard of the Pentagon at the Ground Zero Cafe, so named because it was once thought that the Pentagon was where the first nuclear-bomb attack against the United States would take place. Robert had arranged for a corner table where they would have a degree of privacy. Admiral Whittaker was punctual, and as Robert watched him approach the table, it seemed to him that the admiral looked older and smaller, as though semi-retirement had somehow aged and shrunk him. He was still a striking-looking man with strong features, a Roman nose, good cheekbones, and a crown of silvered hair. Robert had served under the admiral in Vietnam and later in the Office of Naval Intelligence, and he had a high regard for him. More than a high regard, Robert admitted to himself. Admiral Whittaker was his surrogate father.

The admiral sat down. “Good morning, Robert. Well, did they transfer you to the NSA?”

Robert nodded. “Temporarily.”

The waitress arrived, and the two men studied the menu.

“I had forgotten how bad the food here was,” Admiral Whittaker said, smiling. He looked around the room, his face reflecting an unspoken nostalgia.

He wishes he were back here, Robert thought. Amen.

They ordered. When the waitress was out of earshot, Robert said, “Admiral, General Hilliard is sending me on an urgent three-thousand-mile trip to locate some witnesses who saw a weather balloon crash. I find that strange. And there’s something else that’s even stranger. ‘Time is of the essence,’ to quote the general, but I’ve been ordered not to use any of my intelligence contacts abroad to help me.”

Admiral Whittaker looked puzzled. “I suppose the general must have his reasons.”

Robert said, “I can’t imagine what they are.”

Admiral Whittaker studied Robert. Commander Bellamy had served under him in Vietnam and had been the best pilot in the squadron. The admiral’s son, Edward, had been Robert’s bombardier, and on the terrible day their plane had been shot down, Edward had been killed. Robert had barely survived. The admiral had gone to the hospital to visit him.

“He’s not going to make it,” the doctors had told him. Robert, lying there in agonizing pain, had whispered, “I’m sorry about Edward … I’m so sorry.”

Admiral Whittaker had squeezed Robert’s hand. “I know you did everything you could. You’ve got to get well, now. You’re going to be fine.” He wanted desperately for Robert to live. In the admiral’s mind, Robert was his son, the son who would take Edward’s place.

And Robert had pulled through.

“Robert—”

“Yes, Admiral?”

“I hope your mission is successful.”

“So do I. It’s my last one.”

“You’re still determined to quit?”

The admiral was the only one Robert had confided in. “I’ve had enough.”

“Thornton?”

“It’s not just him. It’s me. I’m tired of interfering with other people’s lives.” I’m tired of the lies and the cheating, and the broken promises that were never meant to be kept. I’m tired of manipulating people and of being manipulated. I’m tired of the games and the danger and the betrayals. It’s cost me everything I ever gave a damn about.

“Do you have any idea what you’re going to do?”

“I’ll try to find something useful to do with my life, something positive.”

“What if they won’t let you go?”

Robert said, “They have no choice, have they?”

Chapter Six

The limousine was waiting at the river-entrance parking lot.

“Are you ready, Commander?” Captain Dougherty asked.

As ready as I’ll ever be, Robert thought. “Yes.”

Captain Dougherty accompanied Robert to his apartment so he could pack. Robert had no idea how many days he would be gone. How long does an impossible assignment take? He packed enough clothes for a week and, at the last minute, put in a framed photograph of Susan. He stared at it for a long time and wondered if she were enjoying herself in Brazil. He thought, I hope not. I hope she’s having a lousy time. And was immediately ashamed of himself.

When the limousine arrived at Andrews Air Force Base, the plane was waiting. It was a C20A, an Air Force jet.

Captain Dougherty held out his hand. “Good luck, Commander.”

“Thanks.” I’ll need it. Robert walked up the steps to the cabin. The crew was inside finishing the preflight check. There was a pilot, a co-pilot, a navigator, and a steward, all in Air Force uniforms. Robert was familiar with the plane. It was loaded with electronic equipment. On the outside near the tail was a high-frequency antenna that looked like an enormous fishing pole. Inside the cabin were twelve red telephones on the walls and a white, unsecured phone. Radio transmissions were in code, and the plane’s radar was on a military frequency. The primary color inside was air force blue, and the cabin was furnished with comfortable club chairs.

Robert found that he was the only passenger. The pilot greeted him. “Welcome aboard, Commander. If you’ll put on your seat belt, we have clearance to take off.”

Robert strapped himself in and leaned back in his seat as the plane taxied down the runway. A minute later, he felt the familiar pull of gravity as the jet screamed into the air. He had not piloted a plane since his crash, when he had been told he would never be able to fly again. Fly again, hell, Robert thought, they said I wouldn’t live. It was a miracle—No, it was Susan …

Vietnam. He had been sent there with the rank of lieutenant commander, stationed on the aircraft carrier Ranger as a tactics officer, responsible for training fighter pilots and planning attack strategy. He had led a bomber squadron of A-6A Intruders, and there was very little time away from the pressures of battle. One of the few leaves he had was in Bangkok for a week of R and R, and during that time he never bothered to sleep. The city was a Disneyland designed for the pleasure of the male animal. He had met an exquisite Thai girl his first hour in town, and she had stayed at his side the whole time and taught him a few Thai phrases. He had found the language soft and mellifluous.

Good morning. Arun sawasdi.

Where are you from? Khun na chak nai?

Where are you going now? Khun kamrant chain pai?

She taught him other phrases too, but she would not tell him what they meant, and when he said them, she giggled.

When Robert returned to the Ranger, Bangkok seemed like a faraway dream. The war was the reality and it was a horror. Someone showed him one of the leaflets the marines dropped over North Vietnam. It read:

Dear Citizens:

The U.S. Marines are fighting alongside South Vietnamese forces in Duc Pho in order to give the Vietnamese people a chance to live a free, happy life, without fear of hunger and suffering. But many Vietnamese have paid with their lives, and their homes have been destroyed because they helped the Vietcong.

The hamlets of Hai Mon, Hai Tan, Sa Binh, Ta Binh, and many others have been destroyed because of this. We will not hesitate to destroy every hamlet that helps the Vietcong, who are powerless to stop the combined might of the GVN and its allies. The choice is yours. If you refuse to let the Vietcong use your villages and hamlets as their battlefield, your homes and your lives will be saved.

We’re saving the poor bastards, all right. Robert thought grimly. And all we’re destroying is their country.

The aircraft carrier Ranger was equipped with all the state-of-the-art technology that could be crammed into it. The ship was home base for 16 aircraft, 40 officers, and 350 enlisted men. Flight schedules were handed out three or four hours before the first launch of the day.

In the mission planning section of the ship’s intelligence center, the latest information and reconnaissance photos were given to the bombardiers, who then planned their flight patterns.

“Jesus, they gave us a beauty this morning,” said Edward Whittaker, Robert’s bombardier.

Edward Whittaker looked like a younger version of his father, but he had a completely different personality. Where the admiral was a formidable figure, dignified and austere, his son was down-to-earth, warm and friendly. He had earned his place as “just one of the boys.” The other airmen forgave him for being the son of their commander. He was the best bombardier in the squadron, and he and Robert had become fast friends.

“Where are we heading?” Robert asked.

“For our sins, we’ve drawn Package Six.”

It was the most dangerous mission of all. It meant flying north to Hanoi, Haiphong, and up the Red River delta, where the flak was heaviest. There was a catch-22: They were not permitted to bomb any strategic targets if there were civilians nearby, and the North Vietnamese, not being stupid, immediately placed civilians around all their military installations. There was a lot of grumbling in the allied military, but President Lyndon Johnson, safely back in Washington, was giving the orders.

The twelve years that United States troops fought in Vietnam were the longest period it has ever been at war. Robert Bellamy had come into it late in 1972, when the Navy was having major problems. Their F-4 squadrons were being destroyed. In spite of the fact that their planes were superior to the Russian MiG’s, the U.S. Navy was losing one F-4 for every two MiG’s shot down. It was an unacceptable ratio.

Robert was summoned to the headquarters of Admiral Ralph Whittaker.

“You sent for me, Admiral?”

“You have the reputation of being a hotshot pilot, Commander. I need your help.”

“Yes, sir?”

“We’re getting murdered by the goddamned enemy. I have had a thorough analysis made. There’s nothing wrong with our planes—it’s the training of the men who are flying them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to pick a group and retrain it in maneuvers and weapons employment …”

The new group was called Top Gun, and before they were through, the ratio changed from two to one to twelve to one. For every two F-4’s lost, twenty-four MiG’s were shot down. The assignment had taken eight weeks of intensive training, and Commander Bellamy had finally returned to his ship. Admiral Whittaker was there to greet him. “That was a damned fine job, Commander.”