"AP now reporting multiple explosions N.Y.C.. . . cause unknown..."
The President decided not to communicate this to the crowd. Another ten minutes, and the speech would be over. He had to pick up the pace. A few people were already nodding off. One heavy-lidded man actually swayed on his feet, but an alert Secret Service agent caught him and shook him back to attention. This was a constant problem on the campaign trail. The President wondered if his supporters weren't afflicted with some new kind of attention-deficit disorder.
"Some say the ideals of the '60s are dead. They're not dead. They're only a prisoner of the Republican Congress. Reelect me and help preserve the legacy of the past from those who-"
"Courtroom massacre in new federal building Oklahoma City..."
The President blinked. His stricken eyes chased the red letters off the Lucite screen. Did it say Oklahoma City? Damn, he thought, wishing there was a replay button. There was no replay button. No freeze-frame, either.
As the crowd watched patiently, he cleared his throat and charged on. He was going to finish this speech if it took all day.
Casting his gaze back and forth to make eye contact with the two wings of the crowd, the President awaited the next string of blue letters.
They never came. Instead, another crawl of red marched past: "For God's sake, Mr. President! Please cut short your speech. This is an emergency!"
"In conclusion," the President said, shifting gears, "a vote for continuity is a vote for electoral balance, and a vote for electoral balance is a vote for future and lasting change."
Three minutes later, the crowd was applauding and the red, white and green balloons-some advance man had screwed up-went up to the sky.
Surrounded by a diamond of moving Secret Service agents, the President rushed to the waiting armored limo. Or was rushed by them. Sometimes it was hard to tell.
The Secret Service agents looked nervous. More so than usual. The President wondered if they had read the bulletins, too.
They clapped the door shut on the presidential limo, and a running roadblock of armored Secret Service sedans escorted the careering vehicle to the Charlotte airport.
In the back, the press secretary offered the Chief Executive his choice of secure telephones.
"What's this?"
"Director, FBI. On the explosions."
Indicating the second cellular with its light on, the President asked, "Is that for me, too?"
"Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."
"What do they want?"
"I think they want to beat FBI to your ear."
"Are they fighting again? Damn!"
"Which do you want first?"
The President hesitated. "You decide."
"I can't. You're Chief Executive."
"Hell, hand 'em both over." And the President clapped both cell phones to his head, one to each ear. "This is your President," he said in his best authoritative voice. "Consider this a conference call between FBI and ATF."
"Damn," a small voice said.
"Which one of you said that?" the President demanded.
No one answered. They figured he might not be long for this political world, but couldn't chance offending him.
"FBI, bring me up to speed on these explosions."
"Yes, Mr. President," said the right-hand cell phone. That meant it had been ATF that had cursed. "First, at approximately 11:20 Central Time, an unidentified gunman burst into a federal courtroom in the new federal building in Oklahoma City, He killed everyone in the room except a court officer who is now talking."
"Who did it?"
"I'm coming to that."
"At 12:10 Eastern Standard Time, an explosion took place at the corner of Eighth Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street in midtown Manhattan. It was determined that a postal relay box had exploded. Then at 12:20 EST-note the time-several other relay boxes also detonated in midtown."
"Eleven-twenty in Oklahoma and 12:20 Manhattan time are the same time, aren't they?"
"Accounting for the time difference, yes. There's more. The relay boxes can be opened only by a postal employee with a master key. The Oklahoma City court officer claims a letter carrier committed the massacre."
"What are we looking at here?"
"On the surface, disgruntled postal employees."
The President looked doubtful. "What about under the surface?"
"If I may get a word in?" ATF began to say from the opposite cell phone.
"Hold on. I'll get to you."
"Damn," the ATF head whispered.
"Well, Mr. President," the FBI director resumed, "disgruntled postal workers haven't to date operated in concert. Certainly not coordinated across state lines as this situation appears to suggest."
"They just flip out and shoot at anything that moves, right?"
"That's what my Violent Postal Worker Task Force behavior team says."
"You have a Violent Postal Worker Task Force?"
"Postal crimes have quadrupled in the last five years, sir."
"What gets into these people? Is it the uniforms? The routes? Paper cuts? All of those zip codes they have to remember?"
"We're still working up psychological profiles on that, Mr. President," FBI continued. "In any event, these are clearly federal crimes, and FBI would like the authority to take the tip of the spear in this early investigatory phase."
"Objection! Objection!" said ATF, who suddenly sounded like a lawyer. Ever since the O.J. trial, a lot of federal employees had gotten into the habit of shouting objections.
"You can object later. The President and I are talking," FBI told ATF, apparently using the President's head as a sound-conducting medium. "This is a federal matter. It falls under FBI jurisdiction."
"Don't hand me that. Explosions are ATF."
"Courtroom shootings are FBI. And these events are connected. FBI had suzerainty over ATF in this instance."
"Then we work together," ATF insisted.
"Not a chance," said the President, realizing the last thing he needed a month before his possible reelection was another Waco.
"Very well," the ATF head said. "You must decide, Mr. President."
Thinking that the next last thing he wanted to do before the November election was make an important decision that could backfire, the President clapped the two cell phones together and said, "You two work this out. I have a better idea."
Air Force One was suddenly visible ahead. The President was astonished at how much ground they had covered.
Exiting the presidential limo, he hurried up the air stairs with his entourage and when he entered the gleaming 747, was immediately handed a thin sheaf of papers.
"What are these?" he asked.
"Updates on the incidents in Oklahoma and New York."
His press secretary then offered what appeared to be a block of white wood.
"What's this?"
"Text of your next speech, sir."
"Cancel it."
"All of it?"
"We're headed back to Washington."
The press secretary looked as if he'd been summarily fired.
"Mr. President, we have the Washington vote all sewn up. We can't."
"And get me the postmaster general on the line. What's his name again?"
The press secretary looked blank. The chief advance man looked blank. Everyone looked blank. "Doesn't anyone know who the postmaster general of the United States is?" the President demanded.
"Is he important?"
"If what I hear is true, he may be the most important man in America today."
And the President rushed to his private cabin to hide before the White House press corps surged onto the plane like a human tidal wave in search of quotes and free pretzels.
They were in the air when the presidential press secretary knocked once and poked his head in. "Damon Post on line 1 for you."
"Who?"
"The postmaster general."
"Oh, right. What do I call him - 'Mr. Postmaster'? 'Genera
l'?"
The press secretary looked startled. "I don't know. Should I pull the etiquette book?"
"I'll wing it," said the President, picking up the secure cabin phone.
"Damon, this is the President. I hope you don't mind if I call you 'Damon."
"Call me whatever you want, Mr. President."
"Damon, I've been brought up to speed on these incidents. What can you add?"
"We have people on the Manhattan matter."
"And Oklahoma City? What about that?"
"I have no comment on Oklahoma City."
"No comment? What kind of answer is that to give your President?"
"A politic one, Mr. President. It did not involve a postal employee." And from the tone of the postmaster general's voice, the President of the United States understood that he was calculating the odds of not having to deal with executive-branch interference until after the election.
"What do you mean, it didn't involve a postal employee? A dying witness described the assailant as a mailman."
"No, he described an assailant dressed in a USPS uniform. There's a big difference. Anyone can steal a uniform."
"What about the Manhattan explosions, then? The American people want to know if their mailboxes are safe."
"We are investigating the possible theft of master keys by non-postal-employees."
"In other words, you're saying your people aren't responsible."
"I have no hard evidence to support that theory at this hour, Mr. President."
"I'm going to be getting back to you on this," the President growled.
"Feel free," the postmaster general said. "We appreciate your business."
The line went dead.
"'We appreciate your business'?" said the President, staring at the receiver. "Who the hell does that guy think he is?"
As Air Force One screamed toward Andrews Air Base, the President slowly replaced the receiver. He was thinking of another telephone receiver. A red one.
With the FBI and ATF struggling over turf and the postmaster general stonewalling, the President planned to cut the bureaucratic red tape the same way his predecessors had for the past three decades.
If this wasn't a CURE matter, he didn't know what was.
He just hoped that damn Smith agreed. The President who had created the organization had included a fail-safe in its unwritten charter. The President could suggest missions, not order them. It would be up to Smith to make the decisions, a situation for which this President was grateful. He hated making decisions. There were always consequences.
"Coffee or tea?" asked a voice through the door.
"Surprise me," said the President.
Chapter 15
Harold Smith knew the President was upset from the instant he heard his raspy voice.
"Smith, this is your President speaking."
It wasn't the hoarseness of the President's voice. This President was naturally hoarse. It wasn't the breathlessness indicative of his sudden return to the executive mansion, and the dash he'd made up to the Lincoln Bedroom and his end of the dedicated CURE line.
It was the utter silence in the background. Almost every time Smith had spoken to the President in the past, Elvis music had played in the background. Smith couldn't actually tell-he assumed it was Elvis. All popular music recorded since World War II sounded pretty much alike to Harold Smith, who'd stopped listening to popular music around the time swing gave way to post-war bebop.
This time there was none of that. This more than anything told Smith that the President understood the gravity of the situation.
"I am listening, Mr. President."
"You've heard about the mailbox bombings in New York?"
"Yes, and the court shooting in Oklahoma."
"I think this may be only the beginning."
"You are correct. It is only the beginning."
"That's not exactly what I wanted to hear," said the President, suddenly realizing that being right in this case was not as useful as being wrong.
"That is not a guess on my part," Smith continued. "Someone just demolished the General Post Office in midtown Manhattan."
"How serious is that? We're just talking about a mail-processing center, right?"
"One that occupies an entire city block in the heart of Manhattan and greatly resembles the U.S. Treasury in size and design."
The President could be heard swallowing hard. At least, a distinct gulp came over the dedicated line. "My God, it's as if postmen everywhere have gone crazy."
"The correct term is 'decompensated.'"
"So you agree with me?"
"No, I do not. This is not a case of a handful of postal employees experiencing a psychotic break or suffering from episodic explosive disorder."
"Why not? It happens all the time. I remember reading about a New Jersey postal worker who up and killed his co-workers just so he could steal enough money to pay his back rent."
"This is true. But psychotics do not operate in concert. They are loners. Antisocials. You would have a better chance of organizing squirrels to program network television."
"I think it's been tried," the President said distractedly. "Look, I just spoke with the postmaster general, and he's stonewalling me. You don't think this is orchestrated, do you?"
"I am afraid that it is."
"By whom?"
"Mr. President, if you are not sitting down, I must ask you to do so."
"Go ahead, Smith."
"A Muslim fundamentalist terror group has infiltrated the postal service with the intention of waging a war of urban terror against the nation."
"Infiltrated? What do you mean, infiltrated?"
"I mean," returned Harold Smith in a bitter, lemony tone, "that virtually any letter carrier, postal worker or USPS truck driver might be a secret terrorist intent upon wholesale destruction."
"My God. How many of them are there?"
"I have developed information that suggests over thirty terrorists are in this cell. But there may be other jihad cells. We do not know."
"Thirty? Even thirty can do a lot of damage."
"I assume the carnage of today is the work of one or two, or at most three terror agents. Thirty terrorists could do incalculable damage."
"Do you-do you think this is meant to embarrass me just before the election?"
"I doubt that, Mr. President. This is clearly a first strike. The cell has demonstrated its power. Assuming there are no more incidents today, we must await a communique of their demands or intentions."
"How can we counteract them?"
"Short of shutting down the mail system, I do not know."
"Can I do that as President?"
"That is between you and the postmaster general."
"Is that what you're recommending here? Shut down the mail until we get a handle on how deep the postal service has been compromised?"
"Events may or may not force you to that decision, Mr. President, but for now I have my people on it."
"What are they going to do?"
"They are on the trail of the Oklahoma City terrorist."
The President's voice was startled. "You know who he is? Already?"
"Yes. He goes by the name of Yusef Gamal, alias Joe Camel."
"Did you say Joe Camel?"
"I did," said Harold Smith.
The President's voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial tone. "You don't suppose the big tobacco companies are behind this, do you?"
"Muslim fanatics, Mr. President."
"Because if there's any chance-any chance at all-that the tobacco companies have funded these people, it would be a useful campaign issue."
"I would not advance in public any theories that might backfire," Harold Smith said thinly.
"I don't know which is worse," the President lamented, "Muslim fanatics, tobacco companies or disgruntled postal workers."
"Muslim terrorists in the guise of disgruntled postal workers."
"Why are they disgruntled? Were they ever gruntled?
Is that even a word?"
"I will be back to you, Mr. President," said Smith, thinking it had been a long four years of service at the pleasure of this particular President. Another four was not something to look forward to.
HAROLD SMITH HAD RETURNED to his terminal and its silent, keyless keyboard.
The global search for Yusef Gamal, a.k.a. Joseph Camel, turned up the fact that he was a naturalized citizen of the United States and had been with the postal service less than two years. There were no indications of credit-card purchases of airline reservations or transportation in the recent past that would indicate a premeditated escape route. Smith had hoped for such an audit trail.
Working quickly, he input some of the other cover names-Ibrahim Lincoln, Yassir Nossair and others. It was too much to hope something would turn up, but Joe Camel had panned out despite all logic to the contrary.
While he waited for results, Smith logged on to the FBI central data base in New York City, hopping from desk terminal to desk terminal, seeking activity related to the day's events.
He caught something almost at once. A clerk or agent was inputting the just-developed information that the vehicle-identification number of the exploded vehicle found in the rubble of the Manhattan General Post Office positively identified it as a USPS relay truck.
A suicide bomber, as Smith suspected.
As he watched, Smith saw another piece fall into place. Dental bridgework found at the scene matched the dental records of one Allah Ladeen. That closed the books on one terrorist.
Then his computer began spitting out the whereabouts of the other suspected terrorists.
Jaw dropping, Smith saw the names and addresses of Jihad Jones, Ibrahim Lincoln, Yassir Nossair, Mohamet Ali and most of the others start scrolling before his incredulous gray eyes.
Picking up the telephone, he began calling FBI district offices, starting with Chicago.
"This is Assistant Special Agent in Charge Smith, calling from Washington headquarters. You are ordered to pick up the following subjects in connection with the terroristic events of the day."
No one questioned him. If they called back the Washington number he gave them for verification, they would get Smith's Folcroft line. But no one called back. Virtually every district branch had had dealings with ASAG Smith in the past.
Chapter 16
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