The sniper soundlessly stood and began to limber up using Tai Chi. Dugen smiled under his mask. His men were completely at ease in his presence. He liked that. How different now than it was in 1989 when he led a platoon of conscripts in the assault on Tiananmen Square.
“Guangkai,” Dugen addressed the compact sergeant perched above him on the rocky ledge, “You have been at the night scope long enough. Wannian take over. Guangkai prep the thermal scope, the moon is almost ready to leave us.”
The men silently obeyed. Dugen kept his sniper from getting eye fatigue by having his other two men trade off observing the target house with a more powerful starlight scope set on a tripod. The starlight scope needed some illumination beyond that provided by its namesake, however, so Dugen was forced to use a thermal sight to cue his sniper once the moon set.
“Huizi, enough. Check your battery level.” Dugen knew Huizi’s American-made thermal scope ate through batteries at a fearful rate, especially in weather this cold.
Dugen shook his head almost imperceptibly—those men down below were good. Five more minutes and his starlight scope would be worthless at identifying the target. A thermal sight could pick out a man, but it wasn’t at all good at identifying him, and for this mission, Dugen needed to strike the right target.
“Sir!” Wannian hissed, “The door is opening. I see two men. The target is not among them.”
“Huizi?” Dugen asked.
“I see them,” the sniper whispered.
A puff of wind blew across Dugen’s mask, stealing the warmth off the end of his nose. “Wannian, look at the back of the house and up the slope.” The house was one of five strung out along a dusty road. Their common backyard was a 1,000 meter high ridge.
“Three people and a donkey.” Wannian’s excitement was muted by his professionalism. “They’re about 50 meters above and to the left of the house.”
“The target will be riding the donkey,” Dugen said. He knew he was stating the obvious. He had thoroughly briefed his men, they all knew what to do. In fact, every one of them were qualified snipers as well — Huizi just happened to be the best.
Huizi adjusted his right elbow and became very still. Dugen knew he was melding with his rifle and his target.
Crack! The single rifle shot echoed through the canyon.
“Target’s down!” Wannian said a little too loudly.
“Right. Pack up, let’s go!” Dugen’s men were already scrambling, pulling themselves up by the thin brown nylon rope they left in place to aid their ascent up the steep canyon wall. Dugen made sure his men were out of sight when he pulled a small pouch out of his field jacket and left it where Huizi only a moment before had fired his shot. For an instant Dugen wondered what was in the goatskin pouch, but he was forbidden to open it by Jia Battalion’s political officer. It wasn’t worth the risk to find out, he decided. A whiff of burnt gunpowder passed by his masked face and for a moment his mind filled with images of the bloody bodies of Tiananmen Square. He forced the unwelcome vision out of his head as he turned to pull himself up the rope.
2
Donna Klein, Spy
Donna Klein thought of herself as a spy. She always liked to use that term when thinking of her job, even when the most dangerous thing she faced was a paper cut. But, contrary to popular misconception, most of the CIA’s employees were analysts such as herself, not field agents. Information, whether from the most highly placed spy or from an ultra-sophisticated reconnaissance satellite, was just useless data until she got to it, examined it, questioned it, massaged it, then molded it into intelligence in the form of a concise report or briefing that could be used to shape and execute policy.
Donna especially enjoyed the challenge of forecasting events. While earning her Masters in International Relations (magna cum laude) at Georgetown, she often felt compelled to examine the “what ifs?” in her papers, even if her professors didn’t appreciate the extra effort. Working at the CIA gave her the opportunity to explore “what ifs?”—and actually get paid for it too!
Donna loved her job as a Chinese political specialist. Unfortunately, many of her pearls were being cast before pigs. She was coming to realize, after four short, intensive years, that much of her work was ignored, or, worse yet, misused by the political processes that made Washington tick. Unless one’s work happened to be on the radar screen of official Washington it was often shunted aside in favor of the crisis du jour. Still, the challenge of producing great intelligence was a wonderful job, even if the final product was often under-appreciated.
Donna’s left hand clicked her computer’s mouse to minimize the window of the report she was working on — a brief update on Chinese military modernization progress. There were no rings on her left hand and her fingers were graceful, but the fingernails were carefully cut short and only had a coat of clear polish. The report vanished off of her modest 19” monitor (senior analysts had the big 24” screens). Her e-mail window, always open, always resting immediately beneath whatever she happened to be working on, flashed to life. She highlighted the second message out of eight unread messages — it was from her boss’s boss, Mr. Scott:
Donna,
Our office has been asked to participate in an interagency simulation involving China. I would normally go, but I’m tied up with Balkan issues. Please call the simulation coordinator, LTC Gene Ramsey, at 697-3297 to make arrangements. The in-brief and start-up will be on Tuesday from 8 to 5. The simulation will run five hours each day from noon to 5, M-F, for 2 weeks. I’ll expect you to complete all your normal work assignments during this period. I already spoke to Jack about this.
Thanks.
I think you’ll enjoy this opportunity.
— S.
Donna smiled. A large mouth with generous lips — not too much lipstick — framed her straight white teeth. Yes, there’d be extra work. Yes, she’d catch even less sleep than normal. Who needs six hours anyway? But this was why she’d signed up for the job.
She wondered about the Balkan reference in the e-mail then realized that, while her boss was the head of the Office of Asian Pacific and Latin American Affairs within the Directorate of Intelligence, he was recently the section chief for China. His seniority and his long-time knowledge of China was being tapped to provide intelligence on Chinese intentions for the sections dealing with the latest Balkan debacle — especially important given the heightened Chinese sensitivity about the region after their embassy in Belgrade was bombed by the U.S. in 1999.
She’d heard a few things about interagency simulations. Normally, some planners based in the Pentagon would round up representatives from State, DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency), CIA, the NSC (National Security Council), and sometimes Energy, or other appropriate Executive Branch agencies for the simulations. These representatives would role-play their respective agencies’ advice or interests or be asked to participate in a red cell to act out hostile nations’ actions. This provided military planners with potential reactions from allies, neutral nations, and potential aggressor states. They could then use that information to revise their military contingency plans.
This would be her first interagency war game. Donna smiled again, brushed back a strand of curly red hair, and tucked it behind her ear, revealing one small pearl earring. She picked up the phone to tell Lieutenant Colonel Ramsey at the Pentagon that she’d be there tomorrow.