That was the point at which he deliberately violated everything he’d ever held dear about intelligence work and started lying to the President of the United States.
GREEN AMBER ONE
NORTHEAST RIM, SAN MARTIN CALDERA
MONDAY, 1506 HOURS LOCAL TIME
Charlie Dean kept crawling, moving slowly, keeping flat beneath his brick red tech-ghillie. It was painstaking and slow, but he was making progress, moving at last into the rugged ground above the eroded gully leading down into the northern half of the caldera. Lying beside a car-sized boulder, he studied the crater floor and surroundings carefully with his binoculars, transmitting everything he was seeing via satellite back to Fort Meade and the Art Room.
From this vantage point, he could see the mouth of the cave Rubens mentioned in the briefing, all but invisible in the shadow of the overhang of the cliff above. The drilling rig itself was a good fifty yards north of the cave entrance. Even at that distance, the rumble of pumps and motors and the grind of the drill itself drowned out every other sound. They certainly wouldn’t hear him coming.
With the sun well past the zenith, much of the crater floor was in deep shadow, which would make it easier for him to move to the cave mouth without the drilling workers seeing him. But he also saw a problem — two Tango sentries seated on a boulder ten yards from the cave. There was no possible way of reaching the opening without being seen.
He would have to eliminate those sentries.
That brought Dean face-to-face with a serious problem. Getting into that cave, grabbing Lia, and getting out … that was one thing. However, if he killed Tangos to pull it off, missing guards or dead bodies were certain to raise the alarm — and that would be deadly for the Marines now moving into position at each of the target craters along the Cumbre Vieja, deadly for Marine forces now at sea and preparing to land on La Palma, and quite possibly deadly for millions of people in the Americas and in Europe and Africa if the bad guys set off their bombs and those bombs did indeed generate a large tidal wave. Even if they didn’t, a lot of people would die on La Palma — civilians, Marines … and Lia.
So Dean and Akulinin lay at the top of the caldera gully, watching. They attached certain SOPMOD units to their M4A1s, including sound suppressors screwed tightly over the muzzles of their weapons, and they snapped magazines loaded with special 5.56 mm subsonic ammunition into their receivers. They also swapped out the four-power telescopic sights for their SOPMOD ECOS-N CompM2s.
Technically, the M4 was a carbine, not a rifle, and was not intended as a sniper weapon because a carbine’s short barrel length — in this case fourteen and a half inches — reduced weapon accuracy, but the CompM2 was a special, battery-powered sight that placed a red dot inside the sight directly on the weapon’s aim point. The unit’s accuracy would more than compensate for their not having a true sniper’s rifle, like his beloved M24 or the newer M40A3.
Akulinin also attached his M203 grenade launcher beneath the barrel of his weapon. The CompM2 interfered with targeting with the 203’s leaf sight, but in this situation — shooting down into what was effectively a huge bowl — that wouldn’t be an issue. If they needed to start lobbing 40 mm grenades into the bottom of that hole, instinctive point-and-shoot would be good enough.
Close enough for government work, as Ilya had said when they’d gone over the special-issue gear that morning at Rota.
By the time they were done modifying their weapons, the M4s were a lot heavier. A standing joke about the military’s SOPMOD system had it that the basic unloaded M4 carbine weighed less than seven pounds … but by the time you finished attaching all the SOPMOD bells and whistles, the thing weighed more than an M249 SAW, a light machine gun weighing seventeen pounds. Not entirely true, Dean thought, hefting the weapon, rolling onto his belly, and taking aim, but amusing nonetheless. He was more concerned about the system’s complexity. The more bells and whistles you added to a weapons system, the more likely it was that something critical could fail — and Murphy’s Law ruled that a failure would always happen at the worst possible time.
He positioned the red sighting dot on the back of the head of one of the guards, adjusted the brightness level down a click, but didn’t fire.
Orders …
Dean tried hard not to think about what might be happening to Lia right now inside that cave.
PRESIDENTIAL BRIEFING ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE, EAST WING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, 1012 HOURS EDT
Rubens reached the crescendo of his lecture. “We estimate, sir, that the tidal wave could be as high as three hundred feet and be traveling at something like five hundred miles per hour when it reaches the East Coast. The wave will easily travel inland as far as twenty-five to fifty miles. In places with narrow tidal estuaries or rivers to channel and focus the wave — places like the James River, the Hudson River, the Potomac — the wave could possibly become much higher and more powerful. Mr. President, we are looking at the complete destruction of New York City, Washington, D.C., and a dozen other major cities from Portland, Maine, to Houston, Texas. Millions of people could be killed. The damage will amount to the tens or hundreds of trillions of dollars. Sir, we may not even survive as a nation!”
He let those words hang above the table for a moment, then added, “Mr. President, we need to capture or disable those nukes before the terrorists detonate them, and we need to do it now.”
After a moment, the President sighed. “Are you quite finished?” he asked.
Rubens thought over what he’d just said, then nodded. “Yes, Mr. President.” The die, as Caesar had said, was cast. In his case, though, challenging the laws of Rome by crossing the Rubicon had merely placed his career, his life, and his army at risk. Rubens had just done all of that, and by challenging the President directly, by speaking out of turn this way, he might have put the survival of the country at risk as well. Rubens knew he needed to convince the man, not make him so angry that he ignored the true threat.
“I am concerned,” the President said slowly, “that what you have just told us represents another intelligence gaffe. I’m sure you remember what our so-called intelligence agencies did to my predecessor in office.”
He was referring, of course, to the celebrated failure of U.S. intelligence concerning weapons of mass destruction that had led to the invasion of Iraq in 2003. The comparison, though, was not really apt. The problem had been far more involved than the CIA telling the President that Iraq had WMDs, and the President sending in the troops. Intelligence work was always a shadowy and imprecise business, more art than science despite high-tech satellites and futuristic eavesdropping techniques. You found a piece of the picture here, another there, pulled in others from someplace else, and you hoped to fit it together into a coherent whole.
Coherence, though, was almost impossible when politics were involved — when agency directors were protecting their own turfs, when department heads were protecting their jobs, when not fitting neatly into the correct political orientation for a given worldview was tantamount to career suicide.
Any given intelligence result had more than one possible interpretation, and political animals within the system tended to adopt the interpretation that made their superiors higher up the chain happy.
Of course, that same weakness in the system still existed now. The current political wisdom within Washington tended to downgrade the War on Terror to a skirmish, to downplay the threat of radical Islam in the holy name of political correctness.
Still, sometimes it was necessary to drop political correctness in the name of national survival.
The problem here, though, was not national survival so much as it was victory in this particular piece of the skirmish, and the survival of Rubens’ people. Katie Walden had been pretty emphatic in her declaration that dropping half of La Palma into the Atlantic would not result in a three-hundred-foot megatsunami.
But, damn it, Rubens wasn’t going to risk the possibility th
at the scientists might have gotten it wrong.
He also wasn’t going to let Lia and Charlie and the rest twist in the wind, nor was he going to watch some tens of thousands of La Palma islanders get blown away in the name of political expediency. If he had to lie — or, at the least, to overstate the threat of a tidal wave scouring the East Coast down to bare rock — in order to save those people, then he’d do it, and damn the consequences to himself.
“My predecessor invaded Iraq because you people gave him bad information!” the President continued. “Now you’re telling me to invade an island belonging to Spain. If I do this and you’re wrong again, this will not be good for America’s image overseas. They already see us as the world’s bully, the tough guy going around knocking down the little kids.”
“For God’s sake, Mr. President,” General James said. “This isn’t some schoolyard scrap!”
“Perhaps,” the secretary of state said, “we could turn this whole thing over to the Spanish authorities. Let them deal with it. Our hands stay clean.”
“How about that, General?” the President said. “It doesn’t have to be us putting our reputations on the line.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Rubens said, “there isn’t time for that. Sometimes you have to put everything on the line.”
“What do the Spanish have in the area?” the President said.
The DNI was prepared with the figures. “Mr. President, local Spanish forces include one light infantry regiment — the 9th, the ‘Soria’—deployed to La Palma along with a headquarters battalion. Two more light infantry regiments, an artillery regiment, and a helicopter battalion are all positioned on Tenerife, about eighty miles away by air.”
“And frankly, sir,” General James said, “they won’t be able to do shit. Light infantry without combat experience? Artillery? That’s exactly the wrong tool for the wrong job.”
“And what is the right tool, General?”
“I’d say a U.S. Marine recon force deployed by helicopter, followed up by a Marine landing battalion. FORECON just happens to be in the area. And the Iwo Jima can be there in twenty-four hours.”
“They ‘just happen to be in the area,’ huh?”
James met his stare with a level gaze of hs own. “Yes, sir. The Iwo was on her way to the eastern Med, and is currently four hundred and fifty nautical miles northwest of La Palma. We managed to preposition FORECON on the Iwo Jima just in case they were needed.”
The Air Force general at the table cleared his throat. “Sir, acting on a recommendation from Mr. Rubens, we have deployed six aircraft of the 43rd Fighter Squadron out of Tyndall. F-22 Raptors with laser-guided JDAMs. Call sign Firestorm. Officially, and until you say otherwise, it’s a routine training flight across the Atlantic to Rota and back.” He looked at his watch. “They should be engaged in their second air-to-air refueling as we speak.”
“You’re suggesting an air strike?” the President said.
“The JDAMs will seal off the boreholes Mr. Rubens mentioned. If the nukes are already in position at the bottoms of those holes, the explosions will bury them, leaving no way to set them off. If the nukes are still on the surface but in the craters, the explosions will fragment them without causing them to detonate. There may be some radiological contamination in the area, but no nuclear explosions.”
The President sighed. “So help me, people. If this is another case of bad intelligence—”
“This isn’t a case of bad or misapplied intelligence, Mr. President,” Debra Collins said. “We know this threat exists, and we’re in a position to do something about it.”
Rubens blinked. Collins was coming in on his side?
“Admiral Blaine? What is your assessment?”
“I don’t see that we have any other choice, Mr. President. This looks damned solid.”
“I ran this nonsense about tsunamis past my science advisor before coming here,” the President said. He was looking directly at Rubens. “He says the danger from a large tidal wave is overstated. Pseudo-science.”
Rubens continued worrying the bone. “And the people I talked to said we can’t know for sure what would happen if those nukes go off. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe the tidal wave will be thirty feet high instead of three hundred. But even that would drown a lot of people, Mr. President. It would drown New York and Washington, and it would kick our economy in the nuts so hard that we might never recover. The intel we have so far suggests that the Chinese are behind this for exactly that reason. They plan to step in and take over all over the globe when our economy goes under.”
“Even if nothing else happens, Mr. President,” Collins said, “no tidal wave, no Chinese takeover, we’re going to look very bad if ten nuclear weapons are detonated on La Palma and a few thousand people are incinerated. We cannot afford to stand by and do nothing!”
“Fuck,” the President said.
24
GREEN AMBER ONE
NORTHEAST CRATER RIM
SAN MARTIN VOLCANO
MONDAY, 1515 HOURS LOCAL TIME
Fuck this,” Charlie Dean whispered. “I’m going down there.”
“Shit, man!” Akulinin said. “You trying to start a war?”
“No, but when we get the word to go, I want to be in position and ready. Now.”
“I heard that, Charlie,” Marie Telach said. “I recommend that you stay put! We should be hearing from the boss soon.”
“Recommendation noted,” Dean said. He was already crawling forward, the tech-Ghillie stretched over his back, shifting with each movement of hand or foot.
The descent was a lot tougher than the slow crawl around the crater’s rim. He was moving head-down, and at times the ground was steep enough that he began sliding on loose gravel or cinders. Each time he did, he spread his arms and legs, bracing against whatever support he could find in the ground with his hands, and hung on until the slide stopped. Then he would freeze in place, holding himself absolutely motionless in case someone at the bottom of the pit noticed the slither of rock and cinder down the slope.
Then he would begin moving again. He didn’t have to worry about being quiet, at least. The drill was pounding away with a steady thump-thump-thump, and the air was filled with the rumble and chug of motors and pumps.
Ilya had his back. Watching from the top of the gully through his sniperscope, he would be alert for signs that Dean’s crawl down the slope had been noticed, and take out any threat before the bad guy opened fire.
But the idea was to get all the way down without being seen.
Because once people started shooting, there was a real danger that the Tangos would set off their one-kiloton toys.
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, 1035 HOURS EDT
Rubens emerged from the conference room, bemused and gratified. The President had given the necessary approval. Operation Mountain Storm was now officially a go.
“So why’d you do it?” he asked Collins, who was walking out beside him.
“Do what?”
“Go to bat for me in there. Point out that this time the intel was good. He didn’t even ask for my resignation.”
“He will if this goes bad.”
“If this goes bad, he won’t have to ask.”
“We are on the same team, Bill.”
“With all of the interagency politics, sometimes it’s hard to remember that.”
“You don’t have to play stupid, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“You deliberately planted information about the Yakutsk through CIA assets in Ethopia and Somalia. You made sure those Somali pirates knew that the Yakutsk was a rich target for them. The Constellation battle group was shadowing that ship. As soon as the Yakutsk got off a distress call, your team went in.”
“It wasn’t my team.”
Well, except for Charlie and Ilya, he thought, but she doesn’t need to know everything.
“It was a Navy SEAL VBSS uni
t you ‘happened to have close by.’ ”
“Our ships and personnel are required by the law of the sea to respond to any distress call at sea.”
“Uh-huh. And you were setting up the same thing in La Palma.”
“Not the same thing at all. I just made sure that we had plenty of solid assets where they could be used when they were needed.”
“You already have an assault force on the island, don’t you?”
“Not exactly.”
“A reconnaissance force, then. Marines? Black CAT? I notice that you didn’t tell him that.”
“I didn’t want to complicate things.”
“I admire your balls, Bill.”
“You haven’t seen them in years.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
They reached the secure elevator that took them down to the underground visitors’ garage beneath the White House East Wing. Rubens pulled his cell phone from his pocket and examined the screen. He still wasn’t getting a signal — part of the White House’s security system.
Rubens and Collins parted company in the garage. “Bill?” She called after they’d gone a few steps. Her voice echoed off the bare concrete.
“Yeah?”
“Keep me in the loop.”
“Don’t worry, Debra,” he told her. “I’ll tell you if this works. You’ll know if it doesn’t.”
Still no signal on his phone. He got into his car, checked out past gate security, and pulled out onto East Executive Avenue Northwest. He was reaching for the phone again when it rang. He didn’t bother checking the caller ID.
“Rubens.”
“Bill? Katie.”
“Katie! Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to let you know … after our conversation Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“Some of us here have been doing some digging. There is a danger.”
“Really? What did you get?”
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