Call to Treason

FIFTY-ONE

Reluctantly, Bob Herbert had moved his laptop operation to the Tank. McCaskey had informed him about the latest developments and he wanted to be directly involved in the operation. Besides, the winds in the parking lot had picked up, and there was an unpleasant chill on his back. And, as the engineers from Andrews put it, they needed someone to test the elevator with a load inside. Everyone else was still using the stairs. The tech boys had been working on the lift for three hours and told him everything seemed to be functioning. None of them had ridden it yet because they did not have the proper security clearance. Most of Op-Center had been fried, but protocol was still protocol.

Before heading downstairs, the intelligence chief phoned Stephen Viens. The surveillance operations officer was still at the NRO. Herbert asked him to see if any of the navy satellites had picked up the limousine in back of Link’s hotel. Security recon was pretty thorough in the region because of the naval station, the naval submarine base, and the many inland operations facilities such as Fleet Technical Support Center Pacific and the Intelligence and War-Sim Center in nearby Riverside County. Viens said he would report back if he found anything.

Herbert was happy to test the elevator. It was strange. He had ridden this elevator thousands of times, but this was the first time he paid attention to the sounds, to the little bumps and jolts. Were those mechanical groans of pain or the yawns of waking machinery? He was very aware of the thinness of the air, which was being forced in by a portable, battery-powered pump on the top of the carriage. In a way, the carriage reminded Herbert of how he had been after Beirut: hurt and shut down for a while, then struggling back into service. That was an advantage Herbert had over his Op-Center colleagues. The rebuilding process was miserably familiar territory to him.

The elevator was a little sluggish, but it reached the bottom of the shaft.

Better too slow than fast, Herbert decided.

He wheeled himself out, reached back inside to send the carriage upstairs, and headed to the Tank. The skeleton team at work throughout Op-Center was sharp and focused. That did not surprise Herbert. In a postcrisis situation, work was an intense, short-term involvement that kept trauma from settling in. It was like an emotional gag reflex. The full impact of what had happened would not hit these people until they put down the armor of responsibility.

Hood was the only other person in the Tank. The reunion was surprisingly relaxed, at least from Herbert’s perspective. The intelligence chief had kept Hood up to date and had nothing to add. He plugged the laptop into the dedicated power source in the room and rebooted it. He wanted to be ready if Viens called with information. The map from Homeland Security showed traffic patterns, air lanes, and even possible terrorist targets such as nuclear power plants, electrical grids, dams, transportation centers, and shopping malls. Overlays with different access routes could be added to the image if necessary.

The McCaskeys arrived shortly after Herbert. They brought dinner, which was welcome. It marked the first real break anyone had enjoyed since the attack. In the case of the McCaskeys, it was the first real time-out they had enjoyed since the death of William Wilson. Hood asked about Rodgers. Both McCaskey and Herbert told him what the general was doing.

“I meant, how is he doing?” Hood asked.

“I think he is kind of in limbo, waiting to see how this all turns out,” McCaskey told him.

“It is odd,” Maria said. “Mike Rodgers is out in the real world, but you say he is in limbo. We are in a badly wounded facility, yet we are supposedly connected to the world.”

“I suppose everything depends on your attitude,” Hood replied.

“Knowing you have a job helps,” McCaskey said.

“Elected officials and appointees learn to live with flux,” Hood said. “I still say it’s the inside defines the outside.”

“You mean like us,” Maria said. “The shell of Op-Center is broken, but we are still functioning.”

“Exactly,” Hood said.

Herbert did not involve himself in the conversation. He busied himself with taking bites from the roast beef club sandwich the McCaskeys had brought, pulling up a map of San Diego County on his laptop, and jacking his borrowed cell phone into the Tank system. As a rule, pep talks bored the intelligence chief. Herbert was self-driven. Usually because there was a throat he needed to get his hands around. That was all the motivation he needed. This particular conversation had a fringe of wide-eyed sanctimony that made him angry. Maria had her spouse alive and well and at her side. Hood still had an organization to run and a résumé that would keep him circulating through government employ as long as he wanted. It was easy for them both to be optimistic.

Maybe you really ought to join Mike out there, Herbert thought. Start a consultancy of some kind, maybe for private industry. Security in a nonsecure age. It was something to think about.

The call from Stephen Viens came before Herbert had to listen to very much more of the chat. He was surprised to hear from the surveillance operations officer so quickly.

“We just got a call from the California Highway Patrol, San Diego Command Center,” Viens told the intelligence chief. “They found what they think is your missing limousine.”

“What makes them think it’s the one?” Herbert asked.

Herbert did not ask why the CHP had called the NRO. The Department of Homeland Security had linked all the nation’s highway patrol offices into the NRO’s Infrastructure Surveillance System. The ISS gave local law enforcement offices unprecedented access to observe possible terrorist activity through military, weather, and other observation-equipped satellites.

“The limousine was abandoned in a lot off Highway 163, which is just east of San Diego,” Viens said. “The original driver was found tied up in the trunk. He said he was hit on the head in the hotel parking lot, and that’s all he remembers. The kidnappers obviously switched vehicles. The CHP wants the NRO to look through the back-image log, see if they caught a parked vehicle in the area.”

“How long will that take?”

“Not very,” Viens said.

“What do you mean?”

“The satellites that watch Naval Base Coronado and the inland flight training center do not overlap,” Viens said. “They follow Highway 15 east. It looks like the limousine pulled over in a blind spot. They are double-checking now.”

And who would know that better than a former head of naval intelligence? Herbert asked himself.

“It is possible that the Interceptor-Three border patrol satellite picked something up, but that may be a little too far south to have seen this activity. The FBI monitors that one and is looking into it.”

“I’ll let Mike know,” Herbert said. “Thanks, Stephen.”

Herbert updated the others while he punched in Rodgers’s number.

“Why would the admiral organize his own abduction?” Maria asked.

“That’s the key, isn’t?” Herbert said.

Rodgers picked up the phone. The general said he was just about to board the Apache but waited while Herbert briefed him. Rodgers listened without comment. With the sound of the helicopter pounding in the background, Herbert was not even sure Rodgers could hear.

“Did you get all that, Mike?” the intelligence chief asked when he was finished.

“I did,” Rodgers said.

“Any thoughts?”

“Yeah. I think we’ve been had,” Rodgers said. “Big time.”

“In what way?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve checked something out,” Rodgers told him. “I’ve got to run. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

“Go get ’em,” Herbert said and hung up. He lowered the phone and looked at the others.

“Go get who?” McCaskey asked.

“Mike didn’t say,” Herbert said. “He told me he’ll call in thirty minutes or so. The only thing I know for sure is it’s ironic.”

“What is?” Hood asked.

Herbert replied, “That the man who is in the best position to put this one away doesn’t really work for us anymore.”