Langley, Virginia
1995
Michael Duncan sighed as he stared at the blank piece of paper in the Selectric typewriter. Like any government agency, the CIA floated on a sea of paperwork. Also like any government agency, there was an inherent desire to keep that paperwork squirreled away until it was "needed." Within the Agency, one could determine the relative importance of a piece of paperwork by how it was supposed to be created. Standard forms were bureaucratic smokescreens, lots of sound and fury signifying nothing. With the growth of computers, reports could be created, filed away, and cleverly lost. By this point, if somebody wanted you to write up a report on honest to God paper, without the information ever touching a computer, you knew the report in question would never see daylight unless the roof got pulled off the archive section of the building. Duncan could intellectually accept the fact he had been given a task which demanded a tremendous degree of trust, and he should be feeling pleased at the implied compliment. Unfortunately, it felt more like telling Vermeer to paint a masterpiece which would never be displayed or even acknowledged as part of his works.
Soldiers in the field know that when somebody gives them the "good news/bad news" routine, he typed, it's the bad news which is the part he needs to pay attention to the most.
The good news certainly sounds great. The Cold War is officially over. The Soviet Union has died after less than a century of existence. The Berlin Wall is being broken up for souvenirs. The policy of Mutually Assured Destruction can now be safely shelved because one of the two biggest kids on the block has lost too much to keep staring at the other.
Here's the bad news: we won the Cold War, and now we don't have the first idea of what the hell to do with ourselves.
* * *
Lancelin Guyton set the report down, his normally cheerful dark features looking very disturbed. "Is it really this bad?" he asked Duncan quietly, the faint Haitian accent he'd never quite lost after ten years in the States oddly punctuating the concern.
"If we're lucky, it's that bad, Lance." Duncan brought the mug of coffee to his lips and took a sip. "I basically examined the US like I would a foreign nation. And there's a lot of very worrying signs hiding around here. It's not all doom and gloom. But it's not puppies and rainbows, either. Internally speaking, our friends at Quantico keep finding newer and more interesting ways to catch eggs with their face, at a time when they have a genuine need to not screw up like they have. I mean, it's not like the bad old days under Hoover, but it's still not great. Hell, Hoover probably would have made something like Waco or Ruby Ridge a thousand times worse. At the same time, there's an irrational belief which is just too stupid to chalk up to optimism about Russia. Not to mention there's some...willful blindness, I'd say, going on with China and North Korea. Admittedly, I trust the guys in Beijing more than I do Pyongyang, but that's like saying I trust a rusty nail over a strand of barbed wire to give me tetanus."
"You genuinely think we'll experience 'significant' terrorist events in the next decade?"
"Further events," Duncan corrected gently. "McVeigh certainly did more damage than Yousef. And we're still looking for that guy Qazi. Point is, the grip on the lid is loosening. Has been since the Wall came down. I think what prompted the request for this report was that cult attack in Japan a few months back. The US isn't exactly a stranger to car bombs. Not since Beirut. Being fair, lot of our allies on the east side of the Pond are much more familiar with them than we are. But chemical and biological agents? That's traditionally been the domain of state actors for a number of reasons. Seeing those weapons get 'democratized' like what Aum Shinri Kyo did in Tokyo should be a wakeup call for anybody with more than two brain cells to rub together."
"I would point out the Rajneeshees beat Aum Shinri Kyo by about a decade," Guyton said with a narrow smile.
"I'm not forgetting the Rajneeshees, Lance. But neither am I giving them what you'd call a lot of credit. Yeah, they get the 'first to do this' award for a non-state bio-terror attack, but comparatively speaking, those guys were fumble fingered idiots. I'll be the first to make allowances for the sort of logistical shoestring they were operating under, but salmonella and e. coli are bush league compared to some of the stuff they're holding over at Ft. Detrick. It's the chemical weapons aspect I'm more worried about, least in the short term."
Guyton picked up the report, flipping to a page about halfway through. "The liberalization and commercialization of the Internet expected within the next five years will have tremendous impacts not only on American society, but every society which establishes and expands those connections," he read slowly. "Some of these impacts will be beneficial. Others will most certainly not. In particular, intelligence and law enforcement agencies will find themselves having to deal with an overwhelming number of possible threat sources. The potential for one individual to obtain scientific, technical, and tactical information in pursuit of an operational goal undertaken solely at their discretion cannot be overlooked. The repercussions of attaining that goal will be no more localized than the information which allowed the plan to be formulated in the first place." He set the report down. "You're basically saying one man can murder the world, Dunk."
"Information is ammunition. And the ammo dump has been opened up to the public. Not just the American public. The Russian public, the German public, the Chinese public, the Serbian public, the Iranian public. All of them, everywhere. And as our neighbors in Tokyo discovered, not everybody among them is tightly wrapped. Face it, Lance, we're going to have to get a lot smarter, and fast. Before, if we were supporting irregular forces in asymmetric conflict situations, we had a measure of control because we could provide the information at a time and place of our choosing. We could make sure they were hooking up with forces we considered both useful and friendly to our interests. Five years from now? Those chunks of the operations budgets are likely to be evaporating, because the people we'd normally be supporting won't need us to make those connections for them. The sheep and the goats will be separating themselves without our assistance or our oversight, and that's a dangerous thing. Sure, they'll have the information, but how many of them will have the smarts to use it effectively?" Duncan snorted roundly. "Hell, Lance, we've got analysts right here who I wouldn't trust to organize a bottle party in a brewery, and those are supposed to be career professionals with a couple decades experience under their belts. God save us all when the amateurs start meddling. A wealth of information all too easily produces the illusion of understanding, and you know it. Or ought to."
Guyton nodded, a grimace on his face. He knew the sometimes dangerous attitudes analysts nurtured when they began processing the raw take, and Duncan's observation about the differences in capabilities was well taken. "I hope you won't take this the wrong way, Mike, but nothing would make me happier than to see you proven wrong. That, for once in our lives, people actually did something good with the power and the knowledge they're inheriting."
"From your lips to God's ears, brother."
Silver Springs, Maryland
2002
Duncan looked around, playing the gawking tourist to the hilt as he walked down the elegantly paneled and carpeted hall. He hadn't been in the area since Langley RIF'd him a year after his "masterpiece" report was dutifully buried. He'd forgotten how the architecture and decor in these places had the odd feeling of being both old and new at the same time. Compared to his modest little spread near Olathe, this house had a lot of history. But compared to some of the places he'd operated out of in Europe and Asia back in the day, this place was definitely "new build." The only reason he'd be this far east of the Mississippi nowadays was the occasional consulting gig and bull session with former colleagues.
An aide came over to him and smiled, inviting him to follow her down a side corridor. Duncan followed, wondering once again why he'd let Guyton talk him into coming out this way. He wasn't bitter about being let go by Langley, but neither was he particularly happy about it. More than a few friends and people he was genuinely fond of had died rather abruptly the last couple of years, and Langley's ominous disinterest in bringing him back to help fight the threat he knew was out there bothered him tremendously.
The aide opened a set of double doors and ushered Duncan into a very well furnished study, books lining all four walls, a clutch of high backed armchairs arranged around a coffee table. Lancelin Guyton stood up and came over, shaking Duncan's hand firmly first, then throwing a bear hug around him.
"It's been far too long, Dunk."
"That it has, Lance." Duncan cocked his head slightly, noticing a comparatively fresh scar above Guyton's left ear. "Where'd you pick up the scratch?"
"No place special," Guyton replied with a shrug, and Duncan nodded in understanding. It was something Guyton couldn't talk about. Looking over to the other armchairs, Duncan saw the two civilians, a man and a woman. The man he knew of only peripherally. The woman was a complete stranger. "Michael Duncan," said Guyton, guiding him over, "this is Drummond Webber and Selma Blatchford. They're from the Department of Homeland Security."
"Pleased to meet you," Duncan said as he shook their hands. "How screwed am I?"
"You're not in any trouble, I assure you," Webber said jovially.
"When the Assistant Deputy Undersecretary of Homeland Security shows up to talk with somebody like me, I'm in trouble. I may not have done anything wrong, but I'm definitely in trouble."
Blatchford gave Duncan a wintry smile. "You are exactly as Lancelin advertised, Sergeant Major."
"Ma'am, please. I'm just 'Mike' these days. It's been a long time since I was a PMOO, and longer since I wore the uniform."
"As you wish, Mike," nodded Blatchford gracefully.
Webber went over a credenza and brought out a decanter. "You prefer your whiskey neat or on the rocks, Mr. Duncan?"
"A rock. No reason to go crazy." Webber nodded and dropped an ice cube into the tumbler, then poured a generous serving of whiskey. He made up three other drinks, then handed them out deftly to the others in the room. "Please, Mr. Duncan, sit down." Duncan did so, sipping the drink slightly. Definitely not the cheap stuff. "Operational Implications of Unrestricted Information Availability. Ms. Blatchford and I had the opportunity to read that particular report a couple weeks ago. Honestly, I wish to hell we'd read it seven years ago, rather than finding out about it from Lancelin. But at that time, neither of us were in a position to do so. Still, you're not the first person to play Cassandra."
"Think The Country of The Blind is probably a better metaphor. Even I was surprised at the audacity of 9/11, though."
"Lot of that going around over the last year, Mike," Blatchford said darkly. "Well before 9/11. Had you heard about Operation Dark Winter?"
"A friend of a friend passed me a rough draft of the article the BBC's correspondent produced before it got published." Duncan sipped his whiskey slowly. "I didn't ask for it, but Sienna Galbraith and I knew each other when I was stationed in London. Kinda surprised they moved her from Six to Five. Still, I think she knew I'd probably have a rather different take than the domestic press and she was unofficially looking for insights. It was an interesting scenario. And the conclusions weren't exactly shocking."
"For somebody who'd predicted, in general terms, what would happen in that sort of situation, I imagine not," said Webber dryly. "Mike, I'm not going to stroke your ego, or any other portion of your anatomy, by telling you how prescient you were and may yet be. And you don't strike me as a man who requires a lot of buttering up, or liquoring up, before getting down to business. So, I'll be blunt. I'm under orders from the President to do something to prevent the sorts of disasters Dark Winter gamed out and ones which could conceivably turn out the same way or worse."
"Respectfully, sir, two things. First, it would be a neat damn trick if you could actually prevent that sort of collapse. Second, the President doesn't strike me as being that bright or forethinking."
"Don't confuse the image for the man, Mike," Guyton warned gently. "Admittedly, he's not exactly like his old man, but he got handed a giant sack full of snakes and he hasn't completely gone berserk. His response so far has been fairly restrained, all things considered. We can argue whether that's because of the man himself or the advisers he's got all day and it won't make a difference."
Blatchford jumped in. "What we're here to discuss is a GOTH plan for the nation. And you're probably one of the few people who has the imagination and the necessary experience to come up with something which is intelligent, thoughtful, and most importantly practical."
Duncan scowled at Blatchford. "I don't know what you're expecting, Ms. Blatchford, but I'm going to tell you now that I am not in the habit of devising ways to overthrow my own government, much less destroying the very nation I swore to defend."
"And we don't want you to, Mike. We got a copy of the letter you sent to your representative and the two Senators from Kansas." She shrugged faintly, a crooked smile on her narrow face. "Your objections to the PATRIOT Act were cogently reasoned and well considered. But elected officials don't care for the words 'morally treasonable' and 'panic filled sheep' being thrown at them. If you weren't already under scrutiny due to your former employment with Langley, you'd probably have gotten a visit from the FBI over that. As it was, the letter's existence reached Lancelin, who suggested we read your report. We're asking for your help, Mike. Because you love your country and you're not afraid to pick a fight to defend it."
Guyton nodded slowly. "People are scared, Dunk. They don't know what's going on, what's coming at them, or how to deal with either of them. We need somebody who can think straight even when scared stiff. Somebody to think of a good way to help those who need it when all hope seems lost."
Sighing heavily, Duncan set his glass down on the coffee table. "Define the parameters."
"It's a Go-To-Hell plan, Mike, so you should already know at least some of the parameters. Everything is FUBAR, there is no cavalry coming over the hill, civil order is almost certainly going to be measured in line of sight distance from somebody with a gun. Forget federal, state, county, or municipal government. Consider them dusted for the purposes of this discussion." Blatchford crossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, her brown eyes locked on him as she waited for his response.
Duncan steepled his fingers and closed his eyes, a thoughtful frown on his face as he considered the problem. "In a perfect world, there would be absolutely no written or electronic records regarding the barest existence of this outfit, not even line items on the budget sheets. You wouldn't have any kind of organizational identifier which somebody could pick up on. In the real world, there are certain minimum standards which are going to have to be adhered to. They can't exist prior to the sort of emergency you're thinking about. This cannot be another spoon of alphabet soup in Homeland Security's bowl. They run no operations, training or otherwise, until they are formally activated. No prior cooperation with law enforcement, military, or intelligence organizations. They are basically a piggy bank of people and materiel which gets broken open when the situation really demands it. Explicit National Command Authority activation, and ideally only if the President is coughing up blood on the order right above his signature. If the order gets signed and the switch gets flipped, it had better be for the end of the world. Not for some piddling little hurricane or a bunch of protesters the suits don't want to listen to. Because once it gets turned on, it's going to be hell and a half to turn off again.
"I cannot stress this enough. You cannot go into this believing the genie will go quietly back into the bottle. This is going to be the PATRIOT Act on a diet of steroids, speed, and raw meat. They must be ready, willing, and able to run roughshod over anyone and anything for the sole purpose of restoring the situation which prevents them from operating in the first place. Call it an institutional death wish, if you like. There needs to be an initial vetting process God Almighty Himself wouldn't pass on the first try. You need to find people who have the bodies of Olympic champions, the minds of Nobel prize winners, and the moral character of Cincinnatus or El Cid. And even then, you're going to run into the sort of psychological trauma which can twist even the most upright souls into unspeakable monsters. They will have absolute power, and it will corrupt them absolutely. The trick is getting them to finish the job before that corruption destroys them. Cincinnatus got it done in two weeks, and he had an army to help him. These guys are only going to have each other. There will be no paperwork, no logistical tail, no oversight, and no backup."
"Where would we find these people?" asked Webber.
"They're not going to be active military, nor should they be. I'm going to put my foot down on that point. The whole idea is not to establish a military dictatorship. This has to be what follows when a state of martial law fails to get the job done. That being said, somebody who has done their hitch, seen the high and wide, and come back home better for it is probably a more suitable candidate than some yutz who did a tour at Ramstein and only learned enough German to order beer or ask where the toilet was. Special Forces types would be a good fit, mainly because they're used to living on the tip of the tail and disappointment. Air cav and tankers won't be having fun, but engineers, those guys will be worth their weight in gold."
"There has to be some kind of training regimen in place, at least to get them familiarized with their overall mission," objected Blatchford. "Even if we recruit strictly from former military personnel, they have to be able to keep their skills from just completely rotting away. Something more intense than going out to the range once a month for target practice."
"Understandable, but we can't do the equivalent of Guard weekends. Beyond a necessary orientation and evaluation course, these operatives will either need to pony up at private facilities or find some way to train in a way that does not call attention to their activities. And I'm well aware that's going to place a huge burden on a lot of operatives living here in the East, owing to the number of states with highly restrictive gun laws. Hell, equipping them in any sort of meaningful fashion prior to an emergency requiring their services is likely to cause problems unless we train them to build some really nice little cubbyholes for their gear. Once the fecal matter hits the rotary air impeller, and we're past the point of effective martial law, it'll be a moot point. Until then, they can't afford to get caught. No 'get out of jail free' cards. If they're not cheating, they're not trying hard enough."
"Where would you recommend running this orientation course?" asked Webber.
"Somewhere well removed from any existing military bases, law enforcement academies, or intelligence agency training camps. Someplace so boring, nobody would bother tasking a satellite to look for it. Since I imagine the missions will be happening primarily in urban areas, I'd almost recommend finding some ghost town, a place time forgot once an interstate highway was laid down nearby, but definitely not someplace right off an interstate. Wouldn't hurt if there were some woods within driving distance, but I figure additional wilderness training is something the operatives can shell out for. Or they can learn to go camping like regular folks."
"How about C3 capabilities?" Guyton asked, swirling his drink slowly. "I'm right there with you on avoiding military dictatorships, but these operatives need to know where the trouble spots are, and they need to know who's in a position to help them."
"Well, I'd say following the example of Cheyenne Mountain is probably a bad idea." Duncan drained his glass. "Separate command centers, three of them, on latitudinal axes rather than longitudinal. Places more or less equidistant to the East and West Coasts along a major parallel. Off the top of my head, I'd say El Paso, Topeka, and Fargo. Far as the communications aspect, use the Internet as a model. Encrypted communications along a dedicated network which can tie in to existing infrastructure but does not do so until the directive activating the operatives goes live. Once it does, you've suddenly bolstered Internet capacity for the entire country."
"Voice communications over the Internet are still pretty...iffy at this point," Blatchford warned. "There's rumors of projects happening from the big boys out in Silicon Valley, but they're probably a good five to six years away from market."
"Go the other way. Avoid the usual procurement rituals from big name contractors. Find the small outfits who are sharp and hungry. Give them a shot in the arm financially, then stay the hell out of their way, and copy the patent documents when they get filed. Hide research efforts in plain sight with contests, similar to the X Prize, but in applied sciences centered on telecommunications and computers. Sure, somebody might get angry enough to try and sue after the crisis has passed, but by then, it'll be a moot point."
Webber and Blatchford looked at each other and nodded slowly. "Well, Mike, I'd say you just talked yourself into a job."
Duncan's jaw dropped. "You're kidding! This is way too big for me to take on by myself!"
"You won't be alone, Mike," Blatchford said patiently. "We're prepared to let you poach whoever you need to in order to make this thing happen. Starting with Lancelin here. This is real, Mike. The President is currently prepared to do damn near anything short of nuclear release to ensure the country is safeguarded. In a couple of years, the political will or the public pressure might not be there to get this thing started up properly, and I can guarantee you that we will likely not find somebody as ardent or committed as yourself to the prospect. Honesty compels me to admit that we're probably going to start seeing a glut of spending coming down the pipe which we'd be fools not to tap into, and the Secretary of Defense's proposed plans are almost the dictionary definition of a boondoggle. The basic concept isn't bad, you understand, but it's coming out of those big contractors you were worried about. Which means it's going to be ten or twenty times as expensive as it needs to be with a commensurately inverse degree of functionality. If we can creatively reallocate some of those funds to build the sort of organization you're talking about, get it at least modestly equipped, and maybe give it a few technical edges to help keep its operatives alive on the edge of apocalypse, I think we have a moral responsibility to our nation, to our citizens, and even the world to make it happen."
Duncan looked at Blatchford, then over to Webber, and finally to Guyton. "Jesus," he whispered, his face pale with surprise and barely suppressed terror. "It's asking so much."
"Cincinnatus probably thought the same thing," said Webber quietly, finishing his drink. "But if we find ourselves in desperate times comparable to what the Roman Republic faced back then, and we are forced to undertake desperate measures, I want them to be the best possible desperate measures that can be devised. Overseen by a man at least as good as Cincinnatus himself."
Sighing heavily, Duncan gave Webber a ghastly smile. "Pour the condemned one more drink before he gets to work?"
The origins of the Strategic Homeland Division have always been couched as a response to Operation Dark Winter, a real life simulation conducted in the summer of 2001. Within the setting of The Division, it's always struck me as a little weird that not only 9/11, but earlier events such as the US Embassy bombings, the Tokyo sarin attack from Aum Shinri Kyo, and even the Oklahoma City bombing didn't seem to have been considered or factored into the calculations which would make the Division what it is. So, while this story cannot in any way be considered the "official" prelude to what happened, it is one looked at from the perspective of somebody who saw not simply the results of one really horrific simulation, but a decade of increasingly audacious acts of terrorism from non-state actors without any previous connection to organizations such as Hamas, the PLO, Baader-Meinhoff, the IRA, or others.