First Team (21 page)

But Van Buren knew Ferguson couldn’t resist tweaking noses. He had obviously already taken a dislike to Ms. Alston. The colonel watched her hackles rise; she had no reason to take the CIA officer lightly.

“You can’t blow it up if it’s loaded with radioactive waste,” said Corrine.

Ferguson leaned over to give her a condescending smile. “Why not?”

“Because of the collateral damage,” she said. “The whole ship—a tanker—filled with radioactive waste?”

“It wouldn’t all be waste,” said Corrigan. “There’d be a lot of explosives to spread it around.”

“Why should we care?” said Ferg, bothered by the know-it-all tone in her voice. Did she seriously think he hadn’t considered the consequences of the operation or his actions?

“It is a legitimate concern,” said Slott. “But I don’t think Bob is serious about blowing it up. As for the composition of the waste—”

“Hey, shit happens,” said Ferguson, sliding back in his seat.

“Ferg and the Team will check the situation out,” said Van Buren, realizing he had to save Ferguson from himself. “Very small group, the way we usually operate. We scout it, then we do what’s appropriate. We’ll have several options. I have a plan already.”

“Van’s right,” said Ferguson.

“According to the analysts, it’s possible that they’re staging the waste from a different site, or that this is only one part of the operation,” said Slott. “If the waste were already at the ship, we think we’d have picked up some readings from different sensors we’ve had in the waterway. We have got some other targets to look at outside of the port before we look at the ship.”

“That’s one reason we want the native,” said Ferguson. “I know that’s a risk,” he added, looking at Slott. The DDO had put considerable energy into rebuilding the humint network in Iran, and Ferguson’s proposal would jeopardize it.

“It is a risk,” agreed Slott. “But then so is the rest of the plan.”

Corrine watched Ferguson as he discussed the situation with Slott; it appeared they would jeopardize if not burn at least one native agent, and they were debating whether to take him out with the Team or not.

What a macho bozo, she thought; he probably
would
blow up the ship if he had the chance and call it an accident. The president’s fears were on the mark—these idiots
were
cowboys.

And she still hadn’t figured out exactly how Special Demands operated. Though it was obviously under the deputy director of operations and therefore part of the operations directorate, it didn’t belong to any of the “normal” operation desks or areas and seemed to have unusual access to resources, both within the Agency and the military. Corrine hadn’t had a chance yet to look at the executive order or the NSC paperwork explaining it, let alone go over to CIA headquarters and research the files to get some perspective on Special Demands. That would require some time to negotiate the protocols, and would probably require working in a “safe”—an ultrasecure area where she would be literally locked in with material.

She’d get on that as soon as the meeting was over.

“You have a time frame?” Slott asked Ferguson.

“Van needs another day or two to pull the rest of the elements together,” Ferg said. “Forty-eight hours from now we can go; we’ll have details for you twelve to eighteen beyond that. Swordfish is already in the Gulf. They’ll be ready to go by the time we fly in. Yada yada yada.”

“I’d like to hear the details if you don’t mind,” said Corrine. “What’s Swordfish?”

A smile spread over Ferguson’s face, and he leaned back farther in the chair, his head now draped against the hard back. He waited for Slott—it would have to be Slott—to tell
Miss
Alston that operational details would be restricted to an absolute need-to-know basis, since even an inadvertent comment could put many people in danger.

But instead of telling her to mind her own business, Slott patiently explained that Swordfish was an in-house term for a submarine adapted for Special Operations. Several were prepositioned around the world; they carried a pair of Advanced SEAL Delivery Vehicles, basically minisubs that could be used to deposit Ferguson and his SF squad near the port.

“What happens if there is waste on the ship?” Corrine asked, stubbornly returning to the point that bothered her the most. “Will you blow it up?”

“Should we?” said Ferguson.

“No, absolutely not.”

“Well that settles it. We won’t.”

“What will you do?” Corrine asked Slott.

“That would be an upper-level decision,” the DDO told her. “At the moment, our main concern is just figuring out what’s going on.”

“You can’t just blow it up,” she insisted.

“Why the hell not?” said Ferguson.

“Because it’ll be radioactive.”

“And?”

“Civilians will die.”

“Better them than us,” said Ferg.

“We’re not going to just blow it up. It’s not our call. Stop egging her on, Ferg,” said Van.

“Is there a definite connection between this ship and the May 10 message?” asked Corrine.

“What May 10 message?” asked Ferguson.

“The one predicting an attack. Because if so, this can’t be part of the operation. It would take weeks for a ship to get from Iran to an American port.”

Ferguson knew about the message, of course, but considered it a red herring; the NSA was always forwarding intercepts, fueling rumors and endless speculation. “It’s irrelevant,” he said, getting up. “Are we through?”

Slott nodded. The others got up as well.

“She bothers me,” Ferguson told Van in the hallway.

“Gee, and here I thought you were in love.” He started walking up the steps. “You can’t just piss people off. You have to play by the rules.”

“I do play by the rules.”

“Whose? Yours?”

“Rules are rules.” They reached the elevator level. Ferguson nodded at the security people, then punched the button for the elevator. “She’s gonna be a pain in the ass.”

“They’re just concerned about the prisoner. She’ll be gone in a week.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Ferguson, getting into the elevator. “Want to have lunch?” he asked Van Buren.

“Can’t. Got to go see an old friend.”

“I’ll talk to you before I fly back.” Ferguson saw Corrine approaching as the doors closed. “I’m going to drive out to the shooting range this afternoon,” he added loudly. “If I pretend I’m shooting at innocent children, I’m bound to do pretty damn well.”

“Jesus, Ferg,” said Van Buren, after the doors closed.

~ * ~

5

SUBURBAN VIRGINIA

Though the session had gone longer than he’d expected, Van Buren managed to head out in time to keep his lunch appointment with Dalton. His friend had suggested an out-of-the-way restaurant in suburban Virginia named Mama Mia’s, but the place wasn’t exactly a pizza parlor. A tuxedoed maitre d’ met him at the door. The man nearly genuflected when he mentioned Dalton’s name, leading the way through the dining room to a table at the far end of the room, obviously selected for privacy. Dalton grinned when he spotted him, amused by his friend’s awkwardness in the rather elegant surroundings. The fourth son of a working-class family with eight children, Van Buren still felt considerably more at ease in a McDonald’s—or an Army cafeteria, for that matter.

“You dressed,” said Dalton, smirking, as the host pulled the seat out for him. “I was afraid you’d show up in combat boots.”

“I had a meeting,” said Van Buren. He reached across the table. “How the hell are you?”

“I’m just kick ass,” said Dalton.

The maitre d’ dropped the napkin in Van Buren’s lap with an expert flick of the wrist, then faded away.

“You have to get used to that,” added Dalton.

“Which?”

“Pomp and circumstance.”

“Whoo-haw.”

“Whoo-haw’s good.”

A waiter appeared at Van Buren’s elbow. “To drink, sir?”

There was a bottle of Pellegrino on the table. “I’ll have that,” said Van Buren, pointing at the bottle. The waiter nodded, then disappeared.

Dalton stopped Van Buren from reaching for the bottle. “I can’t take you anywhere. He’s coming back with a bottle.”

“What, you’re too good to share?”

“Hey, I could have AIDS for all you know.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, living in D.C.”

“Nah, Reston’s a million miles away,” said Dalton. They fell into some easy talk about their respective families, both men bragging a bit about their kids. Dalton had a girl who was just entering college. She was heading north to Brown University. A generation ago, her yearly tuition would have paid for a nice house.

“Ridiculous how expensive everything is,” said Dalton.

The food was excellent—Van Buren had a tuna that was delicious despite being barely cooked—and the conversation continued at such a leisurely pace that the colonel began to think his old friend had forgotten why he had set up the lunch in the first place. But that was not true at all; Dalton was merely salting the territory.

“Have you heard about Star Trek?” he said after the plates were cleared away. “It’s going to be upgraded.”

To anyone else in the restaurant, the question would have seemed innocuous, even incoherent. But Van Buren recognized that it was an oblique reference to the Pentagon’s advanced warfare operations center, which was sometimes referred to as the Starship Enterprise. Among other things, the center made it possible for real-time strategic information to be supplied to a commander in the field. The Cube was a scaled-down though more up-to-date version.

It was also, of course, highly secret.

“I’m not sure what movie you’re talking about,” said Van Buren.

Dalton smiled, raising his eyebrows but saying nothing as the waiter stepped over to ask if they’d like dessert. Both men opted only for coffee—decaf for Dalton.

“My company’s going to do the upgrade. And there’s a lot more business on the horizon,” said Dalton. “A lot.”

“Movie business must be nice,” said Van Buren.

“Is it ever.”

The coffee arrived, along with a plate of complimentary cookies. Dalton took one, broke it in half, and nibbled at the edges.

“We need someone who can talk to people, important people, and impress them,” said Dalton. “Tell them what life is like in the real world.”