“It is a most unusual way of approaching it,” Horton said stiffly. “I can only hope that the Magruders are up to it. All of their experiences are overseas. Frankly, I would be surprised if they could even locate Idaho on a map.”
“Oh, I suspect they know where it is,” Chassen said calmly. “They both attended a school there — the nuclear trading prototype program, you know. It’s always been in Idaho.”
“Right, a few weeks on the Navy base in the middle of nowhere and they’re experts on domestic terrorism,” Horton snapped. He had not known there were any Navy bases in Idaho other than a few reserve facilities.
Chassen slapped Horton on the back, and Horton drew back, affronted. “Hey, look. We both just got handed our asses on a platter. I think we better try to play nice and get along, don’t you? At least, that’s what the boss wants.”
“I would hardly call interagency cooperation a matter of playing nice.”
The FBI director’s smile vanished. “OK. Then don’t play nice. I, for one, am going to do exactly what the President wants. And if I find out you’re screwing things up or that you’re holding out on the Magruders, I will personally kick your ass. And that, my friend, clearly does not fall within the definition of playing nice on the playground.”
Fifteen minutes later, A. J. Bratton knew about the President’s plan. Twenty minutes later, he had a plan of his own.
The United Nations
1300 local (GMT -5)
UN Ambassador Sarah Wexler thought of herself as a woman possessed of extensive reservoirs of patience and understanding, but even her resources — not so extensive as she believed — were being tested to the limit by the intransigence of certain nations. Pakistan, for one. India, for another. The squabbling over the borders, cultures, and atrocities each claimed the other had committed was a constant refrain in the United Nations. No matter that the Middle East was set to erupt again at any moment and that some dissident group had committed an act of war against an American carrier. No matter that North Korea was ranting about reunification again, that Russia’s fledgling economy was failing and dragging the rest of the former Soviet Union down in turn, and that China had a large number of military assets circling the Spratley Islands. Any one of those situations could mean a serious worldwide crisis, and it wouldn’t take much to set off any of those tinderboxes. And yet Pakistan and India aired their dirty laundry in public as thought it were the only issue into world. Hell, she was even more concerned about Chinese atrocities in Tibet that she was about India and Pakistan, and that was saying a lot.
It was getting worse every day, and today in particular had seen a spate of demands, requests, and accusations that had escalated to a feeding frenzy. Was there something about the alignment of the planets with a full moon or something? She was starting to believe that the entire world had chosen that particular morning to go completely insane.
There seemed to be no getting away from it. The ambassador from Pakistan was at her side now, long brown fingers plucking gently at her sleeve, his singsong voice grating on her ears in soft, confidential tones. “We would like to know where America stands,” he said, obviously finishing up whatever argument she’d been ignoring. “I think there is some basis for claiming your attention on this matter.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “There are many matters on the calendar this month, though. And pressing problems around the world.”
He drew back slightly. “The United States did not think Pakistan so inconsequential when it wished to invade Afghanistan.”
“We did not invade Afghanistan.”
He gazed at her steadily. “So many bombs, so many troops — and you did not invade?”
“As you well know,” she said, her voice icy now, “we supported the Northern Alliance in retaking their country from a corrupt and repressive regime. I believe Pakistan has also benefited from the establishment of a more stable government in Afghanistan, has it not?”
The Pakistani shrugged. “To some extent. Less than your government has benefited from our support, I believe.”
“You believe wrong.”
He studied her for moment, then his face turned ugly. “You will regret this, Madame Ambassador. You will regret it.” He turned and stomped off, his back rigid with rage.
Wexler sighed as he went, and then turned to Brad, her aide. “That sounded like a threat to me.”
“Me, too.” Brad’s gaze was still fixed on the Pakistani as he watched the other man make his way across the main assembly room. “Can we do anything about it?”
Wexler grimaced. “Not more security, if that’s what you mean. I can barely go to the john by myself now as it is.”
“So what you do think he meant?”
Wexler turned back to watch the Pakistani, who was gathering a loud, vocal crowd around him. They were speaking in a number of languages, but the gazes were all directed at her. “I don’t know, but I expect we’ll find out shortly.” She paused for a moment, then, only half-kidding, asked, “Do you know anything about astrology?”
TWELVE
FBI headquarters
1800 local (GMT -5)
Greenfield slumped back in his chair and rubbed the corners of his eyes with his fingertips. His eyes felt dry and dusty. It was an all too familiar feeling, one he’d felt so often during Desert Storm. It was the result of too many hours substituting coffee for sleep. He leaned back in his chair and let the muscles relax, or at least tried to.
If he wanted to look like a tough guy, one of the ones who wanted to go for hours and days and years without ever sleeping, he would have to dip into the top right drawer of his desk. There he kept two essential items for any FBI field agent: Tums and Visine.
But what was the point? After this debacle, he wasn’t even sure how much longer he had left at the FBI. It had been a total fiasco from beginning to end, and nobody was going to stop and remember that he’d been the voice of caution, that he’d questioned the plans and the information and the intelligence, that he’d argued against a nighttime surprise raid on the Smart residence.
No, what they’d remember was that he’d been the man on the ground, the man in command of a takedown that was starting to look an awful lot like Ruby Ridge. Somebody was going to have to pay for the failure, and Greenfield was pretty sure he knew who it would be.
Do I mind that much? Maybe I should retire, try to work out that disability claim. The way my back feels today, that sounds awful attractive.
Shame rushed through him. How could he think about his own future right now? Four people were dead, two of them children. And from the information that was coming out now, information they should have had before the raid, it was looking an awful lot like Kyle Smart, father of two and husband of Betsy, longtime resident of Bull Run, Idaho, hadn’t done a damn thing wrong.
Hell of a way to make an example. At least they ought to find somebody who actually was a crook, even if you overlooked the fact that they died like that. At least you’d have a cold comfort of knowing in your heart of hearts that the son of a bitch was absolutely beyond the shadow of a doubt guilty, no matter what the courts and the lawyers said. A scumbag, one that the earth was better off without.
How do you ever rationalize killing kids?
More and more, it was starting to look like Mr. Kyle Smart was nothing more than a bitter, disillusioned farm boy. Sure, he might have turned into a serious threat, given time. He was heading in that direction. Maybe somewhere down the road he would have joined one of the vicious little hate circles springing up around the isolated parts of the country, taking comfort in finding other people like himself. And maybe he would’ve gone further than that, but probably never beyond the planning stage. Few of the groups were, by their very nature, capable of carrying out any coordinated plan of action. Under the slightest difference of opinion, they disintegrated into warring factions, like a drop of mercury under pressure.
Kyle Smart would never get to that point. Not now. Not him, not his two
sons, not his wife. All because someone somewhere in the Bureau had screwed up royally by letting the Homeland Security folks in on the deal. If it had been a Bureau decision alone, this never would have happened.
Maybe. Maybe not.
There was a short ring on the phone, signaling an internal call. He picked up the receiver and glanced at the status bar to make sure that the line was secure. “Greenfield.”
“Come up and see me.” The line went dead.
Nice guy. No hi, how are you, no name, no nothing. Just the command. Like everybody was supposed to recognize the cold, nasal accent from the Far Northeast immediately. A hell of an assumption.
Greenfield hauled his bulk out of the chair, silently vowing for perhaps the thousandth time he would get his butt to the gym more often.
The problem was that everyone did recognize that particular voice. No one mistook the voice of Carl Chassen, director of operations for the FBI, newly appointed to that post only six months ago and already making his mark on history as one of the most despotic ops directors ever.
Greenfield made his way up to the top floor, noting that the shabby government green paint on the walls was just ever so slightly less shabby at these levels. The carpet was cleaner, and might even have been laid within the last two Administrations.
He entered the director’s reception area and offered Chassen’s secretary a tired smile. She gazed at him sympathetically, her eyes showing their own signs of strain. “He’s waiting for you.” She gestured at the closed door behind her.
“Any advice?” he said halfheartedly. Janie Felts had on occasion made his job a little easier by giving him a hint about which way the wind was blowing, but not so now. Not that it was necessary. She looked away.
Hell of a nice lady, though. If I ever had more than just enough to cover rent and child support, I wouldn’t mind taking her out. Assuming she’d even go out with a special agent.
He let himself into the office, bracing himself for the worst. Chassen never yelled. He didn’t have to. The clinical precision with which he dissected his victims didn’t require it.
“Sit down, Hank.” Chassen’s voice was cold — but then, wasn’t it always?
Not “Have a seat, Hank,” or “Thanks for coming right up,” none of the social pleasantries that existed to make life flow just a little bit easier. They both knew Greenfield had no choice, that he would do as he was told. What was the point of rubbing his nose in it?
Greenfield sank into the available chair, suppressing a groan as he sank into it. He’d be damned if he’d let Chassen see him wince, not with what was coming.
“So. You blew it. I spent the morning at the White House taking the heat for it. Tell me why.” Chassen leaned back in his chair and interlaced his hands behind his head. A dangerous sign, one that exposed his midsection, indicating subliminally that he had nothing to fear from Greenfield.
“It went badly.”
Chassen arched one eyebrow at that and waited. It was a favorite tactic of his, saying nothing, provoking the agents into tumbling over their own words as they tried to fill the silence.
Greenfield was having none of it. He could wait as well. It was a skill born of long hours on stakeout as a junior officer, hours in which he could barely keep his eyes open. Then the sudden rush of adrenaline as the target appeared, when things started happening too fast to do more than react automatically to them.
He could feel the adrenaline course into his veins now, warning of the danger. It didn’t matter that it was not physical, other than the fact he could end up a homeless bum on the street without his paycheck. The limbic system didn’t distinguish between threats. It wasn’t designed to.
“Understatement,” said Chassen. Again, the silence.
I’ll be damned if I’ll talk. Not now. Nobody listened when I told them it would go wrong. Anything I say now will sound like an excuse. He settled for a noncommittal shrug.
“Well, then.” Chassen leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “Under the circumstances, I’m sure you’d welcome an opportunity to redeem yourself.” Again, the sardonic lift of one eyebrow. “You do well on this one, and a year from now nobody will remember Idaho.”
Right. No chance of that. And even if everybody else in the world forgot, I’d still remember it. For a moment, he heard the screams again, mixing with the noise of the fire.
“The President has decided to assemble a special task force to deal with situations such as this,” Chassen said, his voice betraying no opinion on the matter. “It will be composed of both American and Canadian military forces, as well as representatives from the appropriate law-enforcement agencies. Including, as deemed necessary, our brethren at the CIA. The President feels that we need to deal firmly with incidents such as these, bringing all of our assets to bear on a speedy and appropriate resolution. You’ll be heading up our contingent for the next operation.” Chassen stopped and waited, only a crease at the edge of his eyes betraying his amusement.
“When? And where?” Greenfield said, keeping his voice neutral.
“A few days from now. Back in Idaho. Since you’re already familiar with the area, that will save you some time. You can hit the deck running, as they say in the Navy. You were in the Navy, weren’t you?”
“Marine Corps.” As you well know, you bastard.
“Yes, of course. Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. Well, then, you should be right at home.” Chassen closed the folder he’d been studying and slid it across the desk to Greenfield. “The details aren’t finalized, but this is a rough draft of the composition of forces and rules of engagement for the next operations. Also budgeting and manpower allocations. As you can see, we’re throwing our full support behind this.” Again that sly look of amusement.
Sure. All the resources of the Bureau. And that includes the one agent that’s entirely expendable. That’s what you call giving the President full support? Greenfield took the folder without speaking. He didn’t open at. He waited.
Chassen appeared slightly unsettled. “Well, then. Study up on it and see me if you have any questions. You should be contacted by the military officer in charge within the next couple days to finalized details.”
“Military officer?” Greenfield said, not moving. “We’re on American soil.”
“Of course, the whole issue of posse commitatus. I think you’ll find that the whole doctrine will be changing shortly.”
Since the failure of domestic intelligence agencies to predict the strike against the World Trade Center, there had been increasing talk in Congress about giving the military a freer hand in domestic security. The problem was that the country was founded on a doctrine known as posse commitatus, a doctrine that prevented using federal military forces inside the United States for law-enforcement activities. The National Guard units, which were state units reporting to the governor, were not considered in this category unless “federalized,” i.e. called to active duty and placed into the military chain of command. The FBI had managed to work out some kinks in their operations with the National Guard to their mutual benefit, but other than some small cross-training, not with the regular military forces.
“So whose operation is it?” Greenfield asked again.
“Theirs. There’ll be a military commander. You’ll work for him.”
“Is that legal?”
Chassen shrugged. “The President seems to think so. I imagine it will be a test case of sorts.”
And no matter how it goes wrong, I’ll take the fall for it. The Justice Department will say I should have known better, I should’ve cleared it through them. But the whole thing will be wrapped up in so many security classifications that there’ll be no way to do that. I’m the sacrificial lamb.
“I see.” Greenfield stood, paused for a moment, then headed for the door. He could almost feel Chassen smiling behind him.
THIRTEEN
Bull Run, Idaho
1900 local (GMT -7)
Drake placed her h
ands on her hips and glared at the Army officer standing in front of her. “ ‘No comment’ isn’t going to hack it right now. I want to know what’s down the road. Barring that, I want to know why you won’t let me go down and see for myself.” Behind her, she could hear the familiar noises of the camera crew as they captured everything on tape.
The Army officer was stiff and correct. “I’m sorry, ma’am. A small plane crashed in the area, and the National Transportation Safety Board has ordered that no one be allowed into the area until they completed their initial survey.”
“Right. What airport was it from? What kind of aircraft? Who is the pilot, and how experienced was he? Any passengers? What caused the incident?” Drake shot the questions at the man, hammering on his defenses.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know the answers to any of those questions. There will be a formal briefing held in three hours time. I’m sure the briefing officer will be able to answer your questions.”
Three hours. Too late. I won’t sit in what passes for a press room and quietly wait to get the same news that everyone else is getting.
She motioned to the cameraman, and said, “I want to do a standup. Now.” She positioned herself in the middle of the road with the two Army jocks and a squad of men directly behind her. No doubt one was waving to his mother as she spoke.
“This is Pamela Drake, reporting from Bull Run, Idaho. We have information to indicate that a tragedy along the lines of Ruby Ridge has occurred in the valley behind me. As you can see, it is accessible only via the road I’m standing on, and Army officers are preventing anyone from entering the area — or, presumably, from leaving the area if there’s anyone left alive to leave.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “As you can see, the men and women standing behind me are armed. They are Army officers, if I’m not mistaken. Regular Army — not National Guard. The question now becomes just what exactly is the Army doing? Their story is that they’re protecting the site of an aircraft mishap investigation. The gentleman standing behind me does not even know whether that’s true or not. He’s just carrying out orders. The larger question is exactly what the Army’s involvement in it is. Was it a military aircraft? Or is this the beginning of something bigger?”
Terror At Dawn c-21 Page 11