Authors: Andrew Britton
The Operative (34 page)
There was one thing more. It was in the small compartment between the seats, along with a packet of registration material and a St. Christopher’s medallion. A cell phone, one unlike any Calvin had ever seen. He took it, and the charger, then used his Swiss Army knife to unscrew the GPS. He tucked it under his arm and went back to his own prowler. He was most curious about the phone but did not want to risk turning it on and triggering some kind of data self-destruct code in the phone’s program.
“Take us back to division,” he said to the driver. “On the double.”
The driver signaled the turnaround to the others, adding, “And put the spurs to the flanks.”
Calvin didn’t know what he had in his little trophy, but he knew that it made him smile. He imagined one of two things would happen next: the choppers would come back when HQ found out they hadn’t swept the vehicle, or they’d dispense with the vehicular pat down and toast it from the air.
Either way, Calvin scored that one for what his grandfather used to call “us Texicans.” But as the glow of their success faded, he began to wonder what was really behind the apprehension of two men who didn’t appear to have a clue what was happening. In light of what had occurred in Baltimore and New York, followed by the alert from Trask Industries, plus the emptiness of the cargo bay—it all suggested nothing good.
He hoped to have some of those answers when they reached the mobile unit in New Boston. In the meantime, he texted a brief on-site report to the division leader so that Washington could be alerted.
CHAPTER 26
WASHINGTON, D.C.
T
he Oval Office meeting broke at 3:00 a.m. with word that a young student at Georgetown University had been found dead in his dorm room of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He was a Lebanese citizen, and an FBI uniform was found in a burning pile in the bathtub. The smoke detector was what had triggered the security guard to break in.
he Oval Office meeting broke at 3:00 a.m. with word that a young student at Georgetown University had been found dead in his dorm room of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He was a Lebanese citizen, and an FBI uniform was found in a burning pile in the bathtub. The smoke detector was what had triggered the security guard to break in.
The only things found in the uniform were marbles.
The president grabbed a few hours’ sleep upstairs, in the master bedroom, was showered, shaved, and about to go back to work when word of the Penn Station shootings reached him. He hurried down to the Oval Office. There were no new briefing folders on the president’s desk. In situations where intel was streaming and constantly changing, updates were typically delivered by the department heads.
An intern arrived with a tray of coffee for the president. A second tray arrived and was placed on the coffee table for the others. FBI director Charles Cluzot was already there, along with Homeland Security chief Max Carlson and the CIA’s Bob Andrews. The press secretary had already convened her staff to discuss the talking points for her 10:00 a.m. appointment in the Briefing Room.
That was postponed until noon after the first sniper attack. It was postponed again indefinitely after the second attack.
National Security director Bruce Perry was also in attendance. He had flown back from London, where he had been meeting with his counterpart, Britain’s National Security advisor Sir Peter Gurney.
The Oval Office became a clearinghouse, as information was received by the three intelligence directors and shared with each other and the president. It frustrated Brenneman and the others that no larger pattern seemed to be emerging. The events in two cities appeared to be random acts of terror, albeit most likely coordinated.
“So we’ve got our FBI impostor,” Andrews said. “Another man of Arab descent with no priors and no apparent radical affiliations.”
“What still bothers me,” Carlson said, “is that no one has claimed credit for any of these. Even the guys who claim credit for everything they
didn’t
do were caught flat-footed.”
didn’t
do were caught flat-footed.”
“Hold on a second,” the fifty-two-year-old Perry said. “This isn’t good.”
Brenneman looked over the edge of his coffee cup at the bald-headed NSD. Perry was the former director of the nonpartisan National Assured Salvation think tank based in Savannah, Georgia. His appointment had taken a lot of heat from civil rights groups because NAS was an outgrowth of the Confederate group Assured Salvation, which was responsible for evacuating civilians of all races from war zones. Though many blacks had been saved, they were saved as slaves. Many who wished to wait for the Northern troops were forced out. For Perry—and for Brenneman—the Civil War was over and population centers were prime targets for terror. That was Perry’s specialty.
Perry was not an alarmist. When he said that something wasn’t good, it was the equivalent of “Dear God in Heaven!” from other lips.
“What is it, Bruce?” the president asked.
“Sir, you are probably aware of DoD Protocol Eleven, in which all high-yield weapon transports are locked down in the event of an enemy attack,” he said. “The DoD issued a temporary alert after Baltimore, then lifted it for ordnance already in motion, then reissued it yesterday at eight twenty-two in the morning. It is still in effect.”
“What’s on the hoof?” Cluzot asked.
“The Texas Highway Patrol was alerted by Trask Industries AMRAD Division that a pair of prototype EPWs—earth-penetrating weapons—were en route to White Sands,” Perry said.
“Hell’s silver bells,” Andrews said, sitting back.
“Yeah,” Perry said. “A report from THP Intelligence and Counterterrorism says that the van went from Atlanta to New York with cargo for the NYPD. The GPS showed no stops other than Arkadelphia, Arkansas. When the vehicle was detained outside New Boston by a trio of Ospreys, it was empty and the crew was taken away.”
“To White Sands?” the president asked.
“Presumably,” Perry replied.
“Who’s in command there?” the president demanded.
“Looking, sir,” Andrews said as he studied his laptop. “Brigadier General Arthur Gilbert, since two thousand nine—”
“Get him,” Brenneman said.
For a long moment no one moved. That was typically the role of the executive secretary, but the president hadn’t asked her. He’d kept it in the room. There was no established pecking order, and no one wanted to take that ride down the totem.
“I’ve got the number here, sir,” Andrews said before the president had noticed the hesitation. He moved to the phone. He had said it to the others in the room, using it to save face. He reached for the phone on the coffee table.
“Could there have been an exchange at the motel?” the president asked.
“I was just texting the THP to find out what the GPS says,” Perry said. “That may not help, though. Satellite coverage at night ... We don’t do a lot of it along those remote stretches.” He finished the message and sent it. “The FR also indicates that the THP recovered a secure cell phone from the cab of the van,” Perry went on. “A Minotaur, standard issue for classified transport.”
“Are they cleared to access the cell records?” the president asked.
“If you sign a directive, they are,” Perry replied.
“Draft it,” he told Perry. “The day I can’t trust a Texas lawman, the nation’s done, anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president moved to the laptop on his desk to await the document. He would sign it electronically and forward it to the Texas Department of Intelligence and Counterterrorism.
Andrews’s personal phone beeped as he was placing the call to White Sands. He checked the number, stopped the outgoing call.
“Mr. President, it’s Ryan Kealey,” he said.
“Put it on speaker,” Brenneman ordered.
Andrews answered the phone as he walked to the president’s desk. It wasn’t a secure line, but there was no time to worry about that. Anything they knew, the enemy already knew.
“Ryan? You’re on speaker—”
“Good. Sorry I haven’t checked in. A lot’s been going on. The guy we were supposed to meet here, AD Alex Hunt, just shot and killed CIA agent Jessica Muloni of Rendition Group One. Said she was a suspected Muslim sympathizer. I can’t say if she was or wasn’t, but he shot to kill.”
“This is Cluzot. With cause?”
“She had her weapon drawn, was interrogating Reed Bishop, who she seemed to think had helped the assassin Veil escape,” Kealey said. “Sir, have you been notified about the shooting?”
“No,” Cluzot said.
“I’m not surprised. I think Hunt may be our man. He’s certainly dragging his feet on letting us near the lab and keeping his people in the loop. One thing that surprised me, though. He took a cell phone from Muloni. Snuck it away. A Minotaur.”
The president was looking at the phone. He had a strange thought then: that it was his enemy, like some kind of mischief maker in the myths he loved to read as a kid. During his first term in office, technology was not so omnipresent, and information not quite so immediate and unfiltered. The data was compounding to weigh the group down and confuse the hell out of them.
“Hold on, Ryan,” the president said. He looked at Cluzot. “Charles?”
The FBI director shook his head. “Not standard issue.”
“Is there any chance Hunt was right about her?”
“It’s possible,” Cluzot said. “Veil disappeared on her watch.”
“Mr. Cluzot,” Kealey said, “Mr. Bishop impressed on me that Agent Muloni seemed genuinely convinced that
he
was responsible for the assassin’s escape. She pointed out something else, something I’d noticed, too. The shooting at Penn Station started virtually the minute we walked onto the street. The gunfire took down people all around us, and I mean every side. We were left alone.”
he
was responsible for the assassin’s escape. She pointed out something else, something I’d noticed, too. The shooting at Penn Station started virtually the minute we walked onto the street. The gunfire took down people all around us, and I mean every side. We were left alone.”
“She was watching you?” Andrews asked.
“Apparently,” Kealey said.
“Then, and I’m sorry to say this,” the president said, “how do we know that Bishop
isn’t
a part of this? Maybe his daughter was an unintended casualty.”
isn’t
a part of this? Maybe his daughter was an unintended casualty.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. President,” Kealey said. “He’s been on board with me from the start, letting me run the show. He comes alive when we’re on the trail of these killers.”
Brenneman looked at the others, his expression asking them if they were okay with Kealey’s explanation. All of them nodded.
“What are you doing now?” Brenneman asked.
“I’m leaving the bridge and heading uptown—on foot until I clear the traffic. I have a feeling we may take one more hit here. People are being fed through bottlenecks out of the city. That’s too tempting a target to ignore. It’ll either be the Port Authority Bus Terminal or Grand Central Station. I’m betting on the latter.”
“Why?” Andrews asked.
“High perches and easy getaway to the side streets,” he said.
“All right,” the president said. “Do you want support there?”
“The NYPD is pretty high alert right now,” he said. “I’m sure the National Guard at both locations is the same. Not much more we can do on that front. And there’s no point clustering even more high-value security targets in one place.”
“True,” Brenneman agreed.
“I’m going to see this through, then get downtown for a belated look at Hunt’s project,” Kealey said.
“How is Bishop?” Carlson asked.
“All right. Focused. I have him checking on something. Is anything new there?”
“Nothing that would help you,” Andrews said.
Kealey would understand that to be code for “There’s no significant data, so don’t bother going out of the way to find a secure location.” And they would understand that he was not in a position to tell them where Bishop had gone. Not on an open line. The president presumed it was to the FBI lab at One West Street.
Andrews hung up and went back to placing the call to Brigadier General Gilbert.
“THP reports that the van stopped west of Interstate Thirty, on Pine Street,” Perry reported. “Showing an Arklight Dome Lodge there.”
“Bob, hold on,” the president said.
Andrews and the others all looked at him.
“White Sands is not the issue,” Brenneman said. “You had cargo off-loaded in New York, and possibly in Arkadelphia.”
“Hell, they could have stopped anywhere,” Carlson said.
“That’s true,” the president agreed, “but we need to at least alert the police in Little Rock and Dallas. Bruce?”
“On it, sir.”
Cluzot seemed surprised. “Only the police?”
“Unless we freeze out your AD Hunt, I don’t think we can risk notifying any field offices, Chuck.”
“Sir, we’ll need all eyes on this that we can get—”
“Those cities have terrorist units, good ones,” Brenneman said. “I know. I signed the funding bill.”
“Mr. President, why don’t we want to talk to General Gilbert?” Andrews asked.
“Let’s see if he files an action memo,” Brenneman said. “He apprehended civilians. That should be coming in soon. If he doesn’t, we’ll know he’s running black ops and we’ll need to find out why.”
“I’ll tell the chairman of the JCS to let us know the instant that comes in,” NSA chief Perry said.
The thought was chilling. That this was a domestic-based action was frightening enough; even the hint that the military could be involved made it that much worse. One could be aggressively fought; the other could, at best, be aggressively defended against. There was a potentially devastating difference between the two.
As the president finished his coffee, he turned to the computer monitor to have a look at the online edition of the
Washington Post.
What he saw caused him to forget the cup, the room, the passage of time. He said nothing until he heard Perry’s voice.
Washington Post.
What he saw caused him to forget the cup, the room, the passage of time. He said nothing until he heard Perry’s voice.
“Mr. President ... another situation.”
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