by Sean McFate
The White House Situation Room was standing room only. Movies depict it as a space of nobility and decision, but actually it looks like a townhouse basement converted into a recreation room, complete with low-hung ceiling and big-screen TVs. At the back of the room, staring directly at Jackson, was a wall-size monitor showing the head of the president of the United States.
President Hugh Anderson had double bags under his eyes and a scowl that would intimidate a drug lord. His temper was legendary, even by Washington standards. A full head of gray hair and incremental plastic surgery over the years made him look early fifties rather than seventy-three. The man was obsessed with winning a second term. In school, he was the kid who always ran for class president because he craved the approval of strangers. Six decades later, he was no different. Some thought him the Captain Ahab of polls, chasing good numbers and throwing tirades when they were low. They were down a lot in recent weeks, and now this. He was pissed.
“George, why don’t you know who’s behind this yet?” he demanded. “It’s been an hour and you still don’t have any answers.”
“Sir, we’re doing the best we can,” Jackson said, frustrated.
“Your best is disappointing. Men are made or broken in a crisis, and I refuse to be broken. This is my legacy moment. You, on the other hand, are disappointing.”
Jackson sat motionless, while other people in the room looked away in nervousness.
“Find me some facts, George,” said President Anderson. “I’ve gotten more answers out of congressional hearings compared to this farce. Twelve years a senator, only to be bamboozled by my own National Security Council!”
“Sir, if I can explain—”
“Call me when you know more,” said President Anderson, cutting Jackson off. “And it better be in ten minutes. I have a call with Moscow now. Proof of life. No telling what those maniacs might do if they thought I was dead.”
Jackson’s shoulders slumped.
“Answers, people. Answers!” scolded President Anderson as he reached for a button and killed the connection. His mammoth face was replaced by the presidential seal, the White House’s screen saver. The room sat frozen, still absorbing the barrage. Then everyone turned to Jackson and waited for him to say something.
What am I going to say? thought Jackson. The president wanted to be on the news networks giving Churchillian speeches, but instead he was cooped up at a secret bunker in West Virginia. There could be no legacy speech until he had something to say, such as who killed the vice president. And that was Jackson’s job.
Except Jackson had no idea who was behind the bridge bombing. They had no leads and were in the dark.
“All right team, let’s start over,” he said, and the room sighed. People were angry and tempers were rising. “Homeland, you go first.”
“Here’s what we know so far,” said the secretary of Homeland Security. “The bridge was blown from inside. The bridge is hollow, built in 1935 with interior space for a trolley car propulsion system. The terrorists packed it with explosives and waited for a motorcade to cross.”
“How much explosives?”
“About five thousand pounds of dynamite,” she said, and someone whistled in amazement. “The suspects placed it at critical structural connections in the old trolley car workings, crawlspaces, and cross girders, and triggered it as the VP’s—” she paused “—uh, Henry’s limo approached the median point of the bridge. The explosion induced a progressive collapse by weakening critical supports, allowing gravity to bring the bridge down.”
“Whoever did this sure knew what they were doing,” added the secretary of defense, almost in admiration.
“So the terrorists—or whoever did this,” corrected Jackson, “wired the bridge and simply waited for a presidential convoy?”
“We believe so. It was inevitable that a convoy would travel this bridge, owing to its centrality, whether the convoy departed from the White House or the VP’s residence. All the perpetrators had to do was wait.”
“Are the other bridges wired too?” asked Jackson.
“No. We’ve inspected all other major bridges and tunnels in the metropolitan area and they’re clean.”
The others in the room sat in silence, pondering it. How many other U.S. bridges and tunnels were vulnerable to this kind of planned attack? Too many.
“We’re tracking down leads on the explosive material,” said FBI director Carlos Romero, a broad-shouldered man with the bearing of a boxer rather than a bureaucrat. He built a fearsome reputation locking away MS-13 gang members as the United States attorney for the Central District of California.
“And?” asked Jackson impatiently.
“And initial forensic analysis tells us it’s a commercial dynamite with a high percentage of nitroglycerin and traces of RDX, a military explosive. Not easy to procure, but procurable. Whoever did this covered their tracks well, and took their time doing it.”
“How much time?” asked Jackson.
“Hard to say. Probably up to a year because that’s the shelf life of commercial dynamite.”
“How the hell does someone buy two and half tons of dynamite in a year, and no one knows?” interjected the secretary of state in an undiplomatic tone. Jan Novak was a known hothead and a difficult choice for America’s lead diplomat. They had reviewed the same stale facts five times already and he was losing patience. So were others. “I mean, don’t you need a license or something? Isn’t that what you law enforcement people do?”
“Yes, you need a license,” replied Romero slowly as if speaking to a child. “They probably sourced small quantities from multiple vendors and/or smuggled it in from abroad. The U.S. has lots of enemies abroad. Isn’t that what the State Department does?”
Novak glared at Romero, who didn’t back down.
“Gentlemen, please,” said Jackson, holding up both hands as if stopping a truck. “Henry was a friend to all of us, and we’re upset. Let’s keep it civil.”
The temperature was hot, in every way. The National Security Council’s principals crowded around the oblong table in executive office chairs. Behind them stood or sat their deputies, shoulder to shoulder. It was a bit undignified, given their professional station. White House staffers wriggled around them delivering messages on small scraps of yellow paper as new intelligence arrived. The small windowless room was not intended for this many, and they had a long day ahead of them.
Jackson leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands and his elbows on the table. “DNI, do you have anything new for us?”
“Not since ten minutes ago, George,” answered Michael Taylor, tossing his pen on the legal pad in front of him. He was the DNI, or director of national intelligence. Behind him sat Nancy Holt, director of the CIA. In her midfifties, she had a runner’s physique and silver hair that draped around her shoulders. Her sun-weathered face revealed that she spent most of her career outside the wire, and her eyes scanned the room like an operator rather than a politico.
“Tell us again anyway.”
A staffer handed the DNI a folded piece of paper. He opened and read it, eyebrows raised, before passing it to Holt. Both had inscrutable faces, which irritated Jackson.
“What’s it say?” asked General Jim Butler in an annoyed Southern drawl. A third generation West Pointer, he hailed from Georgia. Now he was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest-ranking soldier in the nation.
“Sir, we just learned that a body pulled from the wreckage is a known radical Islamic terrorist,” said Holt, steel in her voice. “An autopsy will be performed within the hour.”
“Finally, a lead!” said Jackson, smacking the table with his right hand and smiling. The room exhaled. Holt walked to the front of the room and stuck her CAC identification card into the Situation Room’s laptop. A few keystrokes later, terrorist mug shots adorned the main screen for all to see. She scrolled through several pages with lightning dexterity and then singled out one man. A fulsome beard and receding hairline d
id not mask a bullet hole in the forehead. The picture was dark and grainy, as if taken at night.
“No, that’s not him. We killed him months ago,” she said, scrolling further. “Ah, here he is.” Another young man with a heavy black beard. He was smiling and carrying an RPG but looked like he was going to prayers. The photo was rasterized, having been overmagnified.
“So this is the bastard who killed the VP,” hissed the secretary of state. Everyone around the table leaned in for a better look.
“Who is he?” asked Jackson.
“Facial recognition software estimates he is Abu Muhammad al-Masri, with a 90 percent confidence interval,” said Holt. “He was a member of the Emni, a secretive branch of ISIS that built a global network of killers. They staged the Paris attacks and others across Europe. They tried to hit the World Cup in 2018, but we foiled it. A real nasty lot, with skills. Think of them as ISIS special forces.”
“ISIS special forces, huh?” said Butler cynically. “Never seemed that ‘special’ to me. Just thugs.”
“It’s conceivable they executed today’s terrorist attack, if they were resourced by a wealthy patron,” said Romero.
“FinCENs has been picking up a surge of hawala activity out of Riyadh over the past six months,” said Declan Hill, the treasury secretary, referring to FinCENs, or the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. It is Treasury’s lead task force for tracking illicit money around the globe.
“And we’re just now connecting the dots?” asked Jackson.
“You retasked us to focus on Russia and China,” responded the treasury secretary protectively.
Jackson ignored it and turned back to Holt. “Is Saudi Arabia involved?”
“We don’t know enough yet,” said Holt.
“Best guess then,” said Jackson, but Holt shook her head.
“We’re looking into it right now, George,” answered the DNI. “I doubt their government has anything to do with it, but we can’t rule it out. Their king is erratic.”
“We also know there are several elite families in the Kingdom who secretly support the Islamic State,” added the treasury secretary.
Holt stepped away from the laptop podium. “Here’s a theory. A wealthy ISIS patron extracted the remnants of the Emni during the last days of the Islamic State and reconstituted the unit somewhere in the Kingdom. Then they deployed it here. Its mission: stage a spectacular terrorist attack, like 9/11, to rally the extremist world and take back the caliphate.”
Jackson paused, considering Holt’s scenario. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Still, he had to be careful. “Any other theories?”
“We’re also working a Russia angle,” said the DNI. “They have the capability and will to accomplish this, but we have nothing solid to report.”
“How about China?” asked the general. “They’re the rising threat.”
“We’re looking into Beijing too,” added the DNI. “Same with Iran and North Korea.”
“But here’s what I don’t understand,” said the secretary of defense. “Why would any of those countries undertake such extreme measures? They know we would eventually discover who was behind today’s attack, and it would be an act of war.”
“Concur. It could lead to nuclear war, and all these adversaries have safer ways to disrupt us,” said Jackson. “But terrorists don’t give a damn.”
Heads nodded.
“Anything else?” asked Jackson. “Our ten minutes are up, and I need to call back the president.”
Heads shook.
“It’s settled then. We’re going with the terrorist theory until we find contrary evidence,” said Jackson as he reached for the phone.
Holt smiled.
Chapter 5
What a miserable day, I thought as I cleaned my 7.62 mm SCAR assault rifle in the dark. Sometimes repetitive tasks like cleaning weapons helped me think, and I needed to think. It was past midnight and I could not sleep, angry over Apollo Outcomes’ assassination of the vice president and the world’s failure to see it. After reassembling the SCAR, I sat back in my bed, which also doubled as Ari’s couch.
“Think!” I whispered to myself, and plugged my phone into the stereo, selected Mahler’s Seventh Symphony, and blasted the volume. Its dark, menacing opening echoed around my mind at high decibel, and I inhaled deeply.
“Hey, everything OK in there?” yelled Ari from down the hall. “I know your country is under attack and all, but some of us have to sleep so we can deal with the terrorist threats to our own country.”
“Sorry, Ari!” I said, turning down the music. Sorry, Ari had become my household refrain over the past six months.
“Bravo to Mahler, though!” said Ari, padding out in a bathrobe. “Could you spin the Ninth? Last movement?”
“Sure thing,” I said, switching to Mahler’s Ninth Symphony. I carried an entire classical music library on my phone; it was my lifeline to sanity. Ari and I shared a passion for classical music, scotch, cigars, and war. Coincidentally, we were both single.
“Today’s terrorist attack in Washington still on your mind?” said Ari as he sat down on the couch.
“I’m telling you, Ari, that was no terrorist attack. It was committed by Apollo Outcomes and made to look like a terrorist attack.”
Ari shook his head in skepticism as he turned on the TV and muted the sound.
I’m the only one who sees what’s really happening and no one believes me, I thought bitterly as I watched the news blame radical Islamic terrorists. The day’s headlines were a nonstop drumbeat: american vice president assassinated by terrorists. american president actual target. 230 killed. The world was rocked. Several terrorist groups claimed responsibility, some I had never heard of, and I’ve heard of most. TV pundits ranted all day, and all were wrong.
“Well, what did you expect?” said Ari, as if reading my mind.
“Fools!” I said. “I spent the day on my satellite phone calling every friend I have left in the U.S. national security establishment. Most of them didn’t take my call.”
“And who could blame them? Tom, you’re an internationally wanted man.”
I nodded. What I didn’t tell Ari was those who picked up the phone laughed and hung up, saying never call again.
“Did you try the American embassy here?” asked Ari, pouring a midnight scotch.
“Of course I did, using a fake identity. I got a meeting with the DAT,” the defense attaché, “and told him the facts, but he yelled at me for wasting his time, then ordered the marines to throw me out.”
Ari let out an involuntarily chuckle. “Well, I got similar treatment from higher.”
“You ran this up the Mossad flagpole?” I said, surprised. You don’t go to the Mossad with half-baked speculations; they are a no-bullshit organization.
“Yeah. No joy.”
“As a last-ditch effort, I met with James. You know, MI6. He laughed for five minutes then demanded another pint for wasting his time. Wanker.”
“Sounds like the day was a total shutout.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head in frustration. “I have to stop this before it gets worse, Ari. And it will get worse.”
“O-o-o-o-r,” began Ari with caution, “maybe they are right, and Apollo was not involved.” I turned to him in anger, but the thought had nagged at me all day. The more I puzzled it, the less I liked it.
“Ari, the operation was signature Apollo Outcomes. I know because I used to do these things for them overseas.”
“But was it really Apollo? Think about it, Tom. Blowing a bridge and framing terrorists is classic Apollo, but assassinating the vice president? Targeting the president? Killing Americans? Operating in the middle of Washington, DC? No. They would not do that. Admit it.”
I sat back and pondered it. “No, you’re right. It’s not Apollo’s style.”
“Nor is it in their business interest,” added Ari.
I cradled my head in my hand as I thought. “Then who did it?”
We sat in silence because no answer made sense. Finally, Ari spoke: “What is Apollo’s motto, again?”
“Its unofficial motto is ‘Figure It Out.’”
“Then figure it out, Tom Locke. If what you say is true, then the U.S. and the world is in graver danger than everyone realizes. I’ll take on a terrorist group any day before going muzzle to muzzle with Apollo Outcomes. Hell, I’d sooner go to war against Iran than Apollo. They fight dirty compared to Tehran.”
The comment jarred me upright, owing to my many years working for the company, but Ari was probably correct. Apollo was a mercenary corporation, and that was no metaphor. They did Washington’s dirty work: political assassinations, illegal renditions, experimental interrogations, black-on-black hits, covert coups d’etat, color revolutions, and domestic military operations. They recruited from SEALs, Delta, British SAS, Israeli special forces, Polish GROM, others. But they were more than for-profit warriors; they also hired MIT hackers, Harvard MBA savants, and criminal geniuses. Apollo was a cross between Delta Force, the NSA, and Goldman Sachs, and they executed the missions the CIA and military wouldn’t or couldn’t. Apollo Outcomes was lethality without the red tape.
God, I miss it, I thought. Now Apollo and I stood apart. My sin? I was associated with Brad Winters, its ex-CEO gone rogue and my old mentor. Winters even tried to kill me, twice. For that, I sent the man to his doom, damned to a Riyadh torture cell and then beheaded. However, none of that mattered to Apollo and its primary customer, the U.S. government. They just saw me as a threat.
It’s why I can never go home, I thought wistfully, sipping my scotch. And why no one will believe me now.
“Could Apollo assassinate the VP in the middle of Washington DC?” asked Ari.
“Of course, but why? They would never betray their primary customer. Winters always told me that money imbues its own honesty, and that profit motive is the most reliable motivation of all.”
“It’s a conundrum. Yet the facts all point to one thing: Apollo blew that bridge. But it makes no sense.”