Plausible Denial Read Online Free

out of the front entrance, firing at anything that moved in front of
them.
    She
dropped to one knee, took careful aim holding the pistol with two hands, and
emptied the .380 Walther PPK at the retreating terrorists. She slapped in a
fresh magazine and prepared to fire off a few more shots, but they were gone,
speeding off in identical white mini-vans.
    One
of the CIA communicators, a lanky Texan, came out of the building behind her
and laid a hand on her arm. “You won’t be doin’ any good with that little pea
shooter, Charly. They’re all gone anyway,” he drawled.
    She
spat back, “The hell I won’t. I hit what I aim at and I just hit one of those
monkeys in the back as he was running for the van. I saw the sonofabitch hop.”
    Heart
racing, she sat down heavily on the steps of the building and surveyed the
courtyard around her. Blood matted her hair and stained her dress, and her
shoulder ached. The terrorists were gone and all that remained was carnage. The
communicator sat down beside her.
    They
watched as the chancery building burned, timbers creaking and crashing to the
floor. Dozens of dead and injured were strewn about the courtyard. Cries and
moans from the injured replaced the cacophony of shooting and screaming.
    Police
and militia forces began arriving, sirens blaring, pouring through the main
gate. Charly thought about her colleagues and realized that no one could have
survived. There was only a huge burning hole where the chancery building once
stood. No human sounds came from the wreakage.
    She
stood up slowly, glanced around the courtyard one more time and walked
purposefully back to the CIA’s suite of offices on the second floor. “Come on, Gene,”
she said to the communicator, choking back the emotion, “We’ve got to report
this to Headquarters right away.”
    They
hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The communicator worked the
dial of the combination lock on the vault door. He heaved the heavy door open
and they entered the commo room lined with whirring communications gear.
    “Send
a flash precedence cable back to Headquarters. Make it ‘eyes only’ to the DDO
with an info copy to the COS in Bangkok.” 
    The
CIA communicator sat down at a console, typing the message as she dictated.
“Say the following: ‘Consulate attacked by unknown terrorists at approximately
1100 hours. Truck bomb exploded under ConGen’s office during Country Team
meeting. All presumed dead including ConGen and COB. Small arms fire in
courtyard inflicted additional casualties among staff and locals. Details
follow shortly.” She choked up again and paused briefly before regaining her
composure, such as it was, and continued, “Sign it: ‘DCOB Blackburn Acting.’”
    “Got
it,” he said.
    The
message would be automatically encrypted and arrive in the CIA operations
center within seconds. It was approximately 2330 hours–eleven thirty in the
evening—in Langley. The Ops Center would call the DDO, Edwin Rothmann, at home
on a secure STU phone, and he would head into the office. It would be a long
night for him and several key case officers and analysts in the CIA’s East Asia
Division.
    Charly
Blackburn headed back down to the courtyard to help with the wounded and to
assess the damage. Two of Khun Ut’s men lay dead. One had been shot in the face
by the Cambodian as he lay wounded, crying for help—the Cambodian wanted no
potential prisoners left behind for questioning.
    Directly
in front of the entrance to the consular section, just north of the front gate,
was the worst carnage. A dozen or more bleeding bodies of innocent Thai visa
seekers were strewn about. Whole families mowed down as they waited in line for
permission to visit America. 
    A
third severely wounded terrorist sat near the guard shack beside the gate. The
dazed and dying man was being interrogated by one of the Marines who stood over
him with an M-16 jammed in his face.
    The
Marine screamed, “Who do you work for you