The Threat

by David Poyer

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  I. West Wing

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  II. Spring Wind

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  III. East Wing

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  The Afterimage Arlington National Cemetery

  Teaser

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by David Poyer

  Electrifying Praise for the Novels of David Poyer

  Copyright

  For Vince Goodrich and the other heroes of the Greatest Generation

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ex nihilo nihil fit. For this book I owe thanks to Morgan P. Ames Jr., Richard Andrews, John Ball, Eric and Bobbie Berryman, Rob Cole, Mark D. Culpepper, Vesna Dovis, Parker Dooley, John M. Fedida, Marie Estrada, Dan S. Hope, Bill Hunteman, Deborah James, Marty Janczak, Terry Lawrence, Deborah Loewer, Will Miller, Robert “Buzz” Patterson, Al Petersen, Laura Plattner, Naia Poyer, Daniela Rapp, Charle Redinger, Sally Richardson, Sandra Scoville, Matt Shear, Leighton W. Smith, Robert L. Starer, Jay Towne, Bill Valentine, Davor Zidovec, and many others who preferred anonymity. My most grateful thanks to George Witte, editor of long standing; and to Lenore Hart, best friend and reality check.

  The specifics of personalities, locations, and procedures in the White House, National Security Council, Joint Inter-agency Task Force, other executive agencies, and the theaters of operations described are employed as the settings and materials of fiction, not as reportage of historical events. Some details have been altered to protect classified procedures.

  As always, all errors and deficiencies are my own.

  To whom shall I hire myself? What beast must I adore? What holy icon shall I attack? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I believe in? In whose blood shall I walk?

  RIMBAUD, Une Saison en Enfer

  231440Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //Anybody here?

  231440Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //Been logged on since 0900. Where you?

  231440Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //Reporter in office. Gone now.

  231441Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //How’s your day?

  231441Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //Totally certain this wire secure?? Security monitoring? NSA?

  231441Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //They don’t have access.

  231442Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //They have access to everything!!

  231442Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //Not time-critical point-to-point strategic communications. The phone system goes first. Then the Internet. Then GCCS. But this stays up. That’s why it’s text only. Low baud rate. But it’ll always be there.

  231442Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //I don’t feel comfortable discussing this issue.

  231443Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //It’s only a contingency plan. In case P gets totally out of hand.

  231443Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //So what’s the intent?

  231443Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //As G described it when you saw him at the 30th.

  231443Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //That’s a pretty fucking vague concept of operations, cowboy.

  231444Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //Really want to know details?

  231444Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //Point taken. Who’s got the op end? Do you have a candidate?

  231444Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //Still in the search phase.

  231445Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //Just for the record, let me add this. The only reason we’re talking is to have it for, like you said, the contingency. Which I have a real problem envisioning ever being needed.

  231446Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //That’s right.

  231446Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //And you’d need the go-ahead from Two to implement it. It would all have to go according to the—. All perfectly legal. Looking at it from outside. Anyone who knew otherwise??

  231446Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //Would not be available to testify.

  231448Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //I want to say again I have no intention of agreeing that anything like this be carried out!!

  231448Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //What, you want that on the record? I keep telling you there’s no record. There will never be a record.

  231449Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  //***Null response***

  231449Z AUG

  SCHOLAST:

  //Remember to log out at end of chat. I power down my terminal too, just to make absolutely sure nothing left anywhere. Out.

  ***LOGOFF***

  231450Z AUG

  AMICABLE:

  ***LOGOFF***

  I

  WEST WING

  1

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The corner of Seventeenth and Pennsylvania, early, but the Starbucks across the street was already walled in by secretaries, interns, lobbyists, and Hill rats. The air smelled of exhaust, perfume, latte, and fresh croissants. It was the end of summer, and the morning heat promised a scorching afternoon.

  Dan Lenson glanced at his watch as he paced along the black wrought-iron fence. On the other side, camera crews were setting up satellite feeds on the putting-green smoothness of the North Lawn. His gray two-button suit felt loose, baggy, after so many years of wearing a uniform.

  He straightened his back to ease what felt like high-voltage shocks shooting up his arms. The year before, he’d intercepted a nondescript trawler in the eastern Mediterranean. The nuclear weapon in its hold, intended for Israel, had instead detonated a mile away from his ship.

  He’d hoped for another command after USS Horn. Instead, an office in the Pentagon had called with an offer he’d thought hard about before accepting.

  He checked his Seiko again. Early, as he was for everything. A habit that didn’t drive his wife as nuts as it might, since she was the same way. A woman holding a camera in one hand and a Doberman’s leash in the other asked him to take her picture in front of the White House.

  Finally it was time. He straightened his tie and went up to the gate house. Tapped his ID on the little shelf. “Yeah?” grunted the guard.

  “National Security Council staff,” Dan said. “Reporting in for duty.”

  * * *

  “I’ll take him from here,” Jonah Freed said. “Commander. Come on in.”

  Freed, a CIA detailee, was the Defense Directorate security officer. He’d walked Dan through the nomination interviews, and taken care of the special clearance for White House dut
y, Yankee White, which was even more demanding than the top secret/compartmented clearance Dan already had from the Navy.

  They checked in again at a second post in the lobby of the Old Executive Office Building. The gigantic pile of pillared granite was enclosed by the same wrought-iron fence as the White House. Part of the “Eighteen Acres”—the White House complex—it held the agencies that made up the executive office of the president: the National Security Council staff, the office of the vice president, Management and Budget, and so forth. The lobby smelled faintly of fresh manure. He wondered why, but decided not to ask.

  He followed his guide through cavernous corridors that receded to infinity. The building was much larger than it appeared from Pennsylvania Avenue. Grandly conceived nineteenth-century moldings arched overhead. The floor was a checkerboard of white marble and black limestone, all well worn. Here and there fossils lay frozen, remnants of an age long past. Over them scurried hundreds of men and women, each intent on his or her fragment of the national security policy of the sole remaining superpower.

  Someone called from behind them, “Okay, hold it right there. Who’s tracking the damn dog shit all over the floor?”

  He turned to see a disgusted janitor pointing at the tiles. At footprints, traced in brown, that ended … at his feet. He lifted his shoe to examine the sole. “Sorry,” he told the man. “Lady had a Doberman out front. Guess I wasn’t looking. If you’ve got a mop, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Never mind, mister. Just pay attention where you step next time, okay?”

  “Sorry,” Dan told Freed. “I wasn’t looking where I was stepping, I guess.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Freed said. “There’s paper towels in the restroom.”

  With his shoes cleaned, they climbed a bronze-railed staircase to a cubbyhole admin office. Dan got a check-in list. He signed in-briefing sheets. Signed for a safe combination, again for usernames and passwords for both “high-side” classified and “low-side” unclassified e-mail networks, and yet again for a pager.

  Back to the first floor, and a photo booth in the Secret Service office. “That’s a blue-gold pass,” Freed told him as Dan adjusted it. The stainless-steel chain felt heavier than it ought to around his neck. “In a couple weeks we’ll get you one with two gold stars on it. That’ll get you full access. Not to say you just stroll into the Oval Office. But if you’re told to go, you’re cleared in.” Freed looked at his watch. “Remember where your director’s office is? Third floor?”

  Dan said he thought so. Freed gave him the room number, just to be sure, then vanished down one of those labyrinthine corridors.

  The first name on the check-in was General Garner Sebold.

  * * *

  The senior director didn’t have as large an office as Dan had expected. He supposed the 1600 Pennsylvania address made up for it. Sebold removed half-moon reading glasses as Dan came in. His eyes were pouchy. He had white bristly hair. He wore a regimental-style tie and polished cordovan wingtips with a gray suit. The only military note around was a print of an Abrams tank charging through a sand berm as shells burst around it. Dan got a quick handshake and an invitation to sit. Sebold said to the admin assistant, “Ask Bry Meilhamer to come up.” To Dan, “You said you were buying here, right?”

  “We found a place in Arlington. Closed last week.” The price had taken his breath away. But with Blair’s salary added to his—and she made more than he did—they’d manage the payments.

  “You’re coming off sea duty, right? Remind me.”

  “Commanded a Spru-can.” Seeing the general’s blank response, he went generic. “A destroyer, sir. Interdiction operations in the Middle East.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember now.” Sebold looked at Dan’s lapel. “Don’t wear your congressional?”

  Dan had pondered that question before the mirror that morning. The Medal of Honor came with a small blue bar with white stars that you could wear with a civilian suit. He’d held it at his breast. Then left it on the dresser.

  “It attracts too much attention. Plus, I don’t feel right wearing it.”

  “Or the Silver Star? The Navy Cross?” Sebold had a file folder out now, was turning pages.

  Dan didn’t answer. As far as he was concerned, the ones who deserved the decorations were the guys, and girls, he’d served with. Some of whom had never come home from Iraq, and the Gulf, and the Med.

  The general cleared his throat. “What’s your medical status?”

  “Recovering from injuries, sir. I’m approved for light duty.”

  “I’ve got you headed for the counterdrug office, director of interdiction.”

  Dan blinked. “Something wrong?” Sebold said.

  “I understood the billet was director for threat reduction.”

  “Director, yes, but counternarcotics. Not threat reduction.”

  Dan sat forward. They’d told him he’d be working to reduce the number of nuclear weapons in the states of the former Soviet Union, and secure them against the kind of theft and misuse that had killed so many of Horn’s crew. That was why he’d decided to take the job. He fought anger. Since Iraq, since being captured and tortured by Saddam’s Mukhabarat, he’d had to second-guess his emotional reactions. “I don’t understand. Does Ms. Clayton know about the change?”

  “The national security adviser signed off on it,” Sebold said. He smiled, glancing at a wall clock.

  Dan got the message, but decided to push the button once more. “I was under the impression she wanted me in the threat reduction billet. My missile-development background. And the … operational experience with loose nukes. I’ve got some ideas. To get ahead of the curve instead of behind it.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Commander. You’re hired to the NSC staff. What you do when you get here’s up to us,” Sebold said. “If it’s that important to you, maybe I can get you some of the action on threat reduction. And maybe a seat on the Iraq working group. But we need to make things happen in counterdrug. Tony Holt wants this initiative pushed hard this fall.” Holt was the White House chief of staff. Dan had heard him called the president’s personal nut-cutter. “It’s a joint mission, and a huge effort, force-wise.”

  Dan rubbed his mouth. Cutting down the number of nukes in the world ranked high on his list. But fighting the flood of illegal drugs was important too.

  “Orders change, Commander.”

  “Yes sir, I know that,” he said at last. “I’ll do my best.”

  Sebold slapped the desk with eight fingers and rose. “Mrs. C will be back in town tonight. Morning conference in the Sit Room at 1000 tomorrow. Take one of the wall seats. Introduce yourself when it’s your turn, but keep it short.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dan stood too as another man came in without knocking.

  “Bryan Meilhamer. Bry’s been here a long time, knows his way around the halls of power. Bry, your new boss, Dan Lenson,” Sebold said. To Dan he added, “We go pretty much on a first-name basis around here.”

  Meilhamer was in a sport coat and a sloppily knotted tie. He looked to be at least ten years older than Dan and thirty pounds heavier. His shirt was pulled out from his slacks on one side. Sebold said Meilhamer was civilian permanent staff, and would be his assistant director in counterdrug. Dan took a chubby soft hand, looked down on graying strands combed over coral pink.

  “Give him the talk yet, General?”

  “I was about to.” Sebold clasped his hands behind him, stood front and center before his desk. Like Patton, in the movie, Dan thought.

  “We say around here, the Hill’s where they talk about things; the Eighteen Acres is where they get done. This won’t be like any assignment you’ve had before. For one thing, the hours are going to be longer. And every minute you’re not physically here, you’ll be on call.

  “You’ll be asked to take on heavy responsibilities, in different areas, at very short notice, depending on the demands of the moment. The legal limits are spelled out in the read-ins I sent
you. Conflict of interest. Financial disclosure. But the requirements go beyond that.

  “We exercise the power of the presidency. Because of that, and the trust it implies, even the appearance of impropriety here is impropriety. Not only do you not favor anyone’s interest, you can’t appear to do so, even in the most innocent way. Did you vote for Robert De Bari?”

  The question was so unexpected Dan almost answered it. “I’m not sure that’s really—”

  “No, you’re right; it doesn’t make any difference. We’re here to further his objectives. Not ours, or our individual service’s. If you’ve got any agenda of your own, put it aside.

  “As a National Security Council staff member, you’ll be working with full generals, agency heads, the most powerful people in government. But as far as the Constitution goes, we don’t exist. If you want your name in the papers, you’re in the wrong place. If you have any criticism of the president, or anyone around him, keep it to yourself. Or bring it to me, if you absolutely have to.”

  “I know what loyalty means, sir.”

  “I hope so,” Sebold said. “A lot of what goes on inside that iron fence never goes public. The people who matter know how to keep their mouths shut.”

  “I keep classified information to myself,” Dan said. “If that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “Good. Because you’re going to be working with some who it will sometimes seem aren’t playing on the same team as we are. Before you assume they’re being mendacious, or willfully ignorant, pick up the phone and talk it through. Nine times out of ten it’s just someone protecting his turf. If that doesn’t fix the problem, call me. I’ll take it to a level that’ll settle it.”

  Sebold reflected. “Don’t be surprised when people you expected more of turn out to have feet of clay. And when things get chaotic around here, remember, you get to see only one little piece of an issue. There’s a bigger picture, but you most likely won’t see it till a lot later … if you ever do. And don’t get the idea you’re at the center of things. We may work here, but we’re not the banana. We’re actually more like that white pulp on the inside of the peel.”

  Dan was ready for more words of wisdom, but that seemed to be all. The senior director slid past them. “I’m due in the West Wing. If you want to come along, I’ll drop you at the DNSA’s office.”