Cloudburst

Nine DESIGNS

The thirty-five teams were feeling the frustration of a zero batting average. No registration records or eyewitness accounts could place the shooters or Jackson at any of the hotels or motels close to the freeway. Frankie and Thom had finished their area, with no success, and were heading to the north side of the 10 to assist two other teams and, by their generosity, share in the frustration. They figured theirs would be a helping and a half for the day.

And that day, so far, had been sixteen hours of monotony, played out by the seventy agents as the mounting negative reports were broadcast over the radio. With the long hours taken into account it was slightly more than amazing that Frankie’s senses were keen enough to notice something that no one had considered. The Bureau Chevy slowed in the right lane and glided to a smooth stop curbside. Both agents were looking to the right, Frankie leaning forward on the steering wheel.

“Thom?” she said, her smiling brown eyes studying the building and its surroundings.

“Yeah.”

“Are you seeing what I am?”

“Sure am,” Thom answered, unbuckling his seat belt. “It makes sense. Private. Looks like a card-access gate. It’s not a motel, but it’d serve the purpose.”

“Exactly my thinking.” Frankie checked the traffic before opening her door. “Call it in on the cellular. I’m gonna start knocking.”

Within ten minutes all those teams that had struck out on the motels were directing their efforts elsewhere, hoping against the growing odds for a success.

The night sky was a sea of darkness rushing past the Tomcat’s clear canopy. Dick Logan was riding shotgun, sitting where the radar intercept officer usually would.

“My rear ain’t happy about havin’ to hitch back on a COD,” the pilot told Logan, the cow pies practically dripping from his staticky words. “You must be important.”

Logan knew better than that. His agent was the important one.

Silence answered the pilot’s question better than words. “Yep. I see.” His white helmet shook with wonder. “Mister, you ever land on a carrier?”

“Vertically.”

“This is a bit more violent than a helo touchdown. You cinched up?”

Logan checked his harness. “Roger.” The quick preflight instructions they had given him at Sigonella were supposed to prepare him for this. Why, then, did he feel like he’d just bent over in a prison shower room?

“Ready, then?”

“Ready what?” Logan asked with surprise, craning his neck to see past the pilot’s headrest and bulbous headgear. There was only blackness ahead.

“On the deck in one minute, mister.”

The CIA officer felt his stomach tighten up. These Navy birdmen are fucking crazy! Where the hell is the ship? All he could see below was deep black, and he knew that beneath that was an even deeper ocean.

The sixty seconds evaporated quickly, ending when the thirty-ton aircraft’s tail hook snagged the number one arrester wire. Logan didn’t have the luxury of experience in this, and his tense body was thrown forward, testing the harness with force. Internal organs were mixed and pressed forward, nearly heaving the small base meal from his stomach into his oxygen mask.

Then, it was all over. Fast. The canopy came up and deck crewmen, dressed in different primary-colored shirts, were all over the plane, removing both men to the welcome feel of the solid, rolling ground that was the ninety-thousand-ton USS Carl Vinson.

A khaki-uniformed officer, peaked cap and red flashlight in hand, met Logan at the Tomcat’s right wingtip and led him into the carrier’s island. After a quick introduction they continued down through corridors that a stranger to the ship couldn’t trace his way through on a lucky day. A knock and announcement at a door not like the steel ovals they had passed through brought him into a nicely appointed, if small, office. The lieutenant left with an informal salute, and a smile that was not for the visitor.

“Mister Logan,” the man seated behind the desk began without rising or offering his hand, “I am Commander Harrold Keys.”

Logan felt exposed standing before the officer, a feeling that reminded him both of his short stint in the Air Force years before, and of a firing squad scene from some movie he’d seen. “Commander.”

“I run the air group aboard this ship. The Vinson herself belongs to Admiral Drew. The planes and their crews are mine. They’re my responsibility, Logan, and mine alone. None of them are expendable. None are worth wasting. I take this all very seriously. Do you understand?”

Logan felt the tips of his ears burn. He was sure they were red. “Clearly.”

Keys folded his hands on the desk, his elbows stretched straight out. He was the picture of a naval aviator. His strong, sincere brown eyes spoke volumes about courage and determination, and the wave of black hair was cropped close the way pilots preferred, not in a Marine-like flattop. The uniform, what Logan could see of it above the desk, was pressed neatly, but not impeccably, indicative of the fact that this man was a hands-on commander, one who more than likely hopped behind the stick on occasion to chase birds. On his breast were a modest few ribbons, and on his right hand he wore the ring of honor — that of an Annapolis graduate.

Logan had to respect the man, even if he was an ass at the moment.

“I do not care much for this mission,” Keys explained, quite unnecessarily. He slid back from the desk and stood. “Risking good men for some raghead traitor goes against my grain. Way against it.”

“He’s on our side, Commander.” Logan knew the words were worthless to Keys.

“Let me share something with you, Mr. Logan.” Keys gestured toward two chairs at room’s center, where they sat. “About twenty-five years back, not more than six months in the front seat, I caught myself some flak at six hundred knots in my good ol’ F-4. And, mind you, there weren’t any friendlies below. Just a slew of pissed-off gooks. Can’t say I blame ‘em, being that we’d just blown the crap out of a road network around their village. Anyway, my backseater didn’t make it out before we hit — his seat must’ve screwed up or something. I hit the ground in damn good shape, which ain’t supposed to happen in an eject. Nothing broken. Nothing at all.” Keys’s head shook slightly, almost wistfully, as the time came back. He looked up at Logan. “I was the only one to survive from the flight. Six planes. Eleven good men — dead. Thank God SAR got to me before the locals. And do you know why? Because we were getting our intel from some gook insider. He gave us lots of good stuff as a lead-in: a bridge here, and maybe some rice convoy or some other piddly shit. Just enough so our intel guys were comfortable with it all. Just enough so he could draw a bunch of us in to a grade A bushwack. We bit at it, and good.” The commander looked down and then at the spy again. “He was on our side, Logan. Think about that.”

Logan breathed deeply. “The orders, Commander, come…”

“I know, Logan.” Keys waved off the reminder. “From the top. You see, that’s where I differ from that candy-ass raghead of yours. I obey orders. I am loyal to my country, and to my men. You’ll have everything you need to complete this mission. Everything. If you need a goddamn turkey dinner waiting here for him, you’ve got it. But take this advice: don’t be surprised if your beloved traitor — you know, the one on our side — don’t be surprised if he’s playing both sides of the fence.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Keep this in mind, too, mister: There’ll be a helo full of good men going in there with you to pull that guy out. You’re not the only one who could get killed. You’ve got a lot of lives on your shoulders, Mr. Logan.”

He was right, as much as Logan wanted to not believe it. DONNER, like any other agent, could be a pawn. Damn! “Message received, Commander. Loud and clear.”

Keys nodded. “The lieutenant will take you to your bunk. It’s small, but it’s private. I assume you’ll want to brief the helo crew ASAP.”

“And the special ops troops,” Logan added. “Who do we have?”

“A squad of recon Marines from Guam. Eight men…Good men.”

“Point well taken, Commander.”

Logan looked for some common ground that they could work from, but since he knew of the commander’s distaste for DONNER, a man he had not yet met, settling for noninterference would have to do. He knew he would have all the help he needed, but he wanted more. Not approval — at least not for himself, and definitely not from this man. Maybe he was hoping for acceptance for his agent, so the man wouldn’t come in from the cold and realize that home had been a hell of a lot warmer.

“Very well. Briefing in forty minutes.” Keys returned to his chair, again without taking the CIA officer’s hand. It was a cold signal, one that Logan heeded, immediately, picking up his escort outside the door as he left.

If their average was translated into baseball terms, Agents Francine Aguirre and Thomas Danbrook would be candidates for yearly multi-million-dollar contracts. Already the word had spread that they were blessed, the Buddha whose tummy one rubbed to bring luck. That was before the immediate moment. This one, if it was a hit, would put them in the realm of legends.

Frankie heard it first. The lowered white Hyundai pulled slowly into the driveway to avoid dragging its ground- hugging underside. Its bass-heavy stereo system thumped until going silent as the headlights faded to darkness. The driver stepped out and approached. His babyish face was framed by the dark strands of his wet-curl perm, and the white Nike sweat suit glowed, even in the dim light from the distant sodium lamp. He walked toward his boss and the two agents waiting outside the sliding night window of the storage yard.

“Daryl, come here.” The owner spoke in a heavy Indian accent. His dark-haired wife watched worriedly from inside.

“Watsup?” Daryl James had almost thought the phone call from his boss was a joke, but Mr. Patel was a serious man. That he knew for sure. “You almost didn’t catch me. I just walked in when the phone rang.”

“Daryl,” Frankie said, offering her hand. The young man, polite and calm, accepted it. “I’m Agent Aguirre and this is Agent Danbrook. We’re with the L.A. FBI office.”

The young man straightened up at that. “Hey, man…I mean lady. I don’t do none of that shit that you all handle. No drugs or gang banging. Honest.”

Thom was skeptical, but not Frankie. The kid wasn’t a street slime, like so many others she had seen or grown up with. No expensive jewelry or flashy clothes. Even his car was sedate when compared to what other young guys who looked the part were driving. Thom, a new agent, had seen too many movies and spent too much time behind a desk.

Frankie smiled. “Don’t sweat it.”

Thom handed Daryl a page from the facility’s register book. It was similar to that of a hotel, showing who rented each particular space. This one was for space 141, one of the small walk-in units. A picture was also passed over, which Daryl held under the light over the night window.

“Do you remember any of these men?” Frankie asked, watching Daryl for any reaction as his eyes went between the form and the strip of three photos.

“Yeah. Last week, I think.”

“Which one,” Frankie probed, sidestepping closer to the light as her heartbeat picked up.

“This one here. On the left.”

“Jackson,” Thom said to his partner, who nodded.

They had been right. It had been a simple hunch, but then that was good police work. Some of it could be taught: the investigative techniques, to an extent, and the reckoning of fact with conjecture, most notably. But that gut feeling that good cops got was inborn. Not every agent had it, but all street agents worth their salt did.

“Let’s check it out,” Frankie said, her manner now more serious. The time for glee was past. “Mr. Patel, the gentleman that Daryl just identified is wanted for questioning in the assassination of the president. You can imagine how serious this is. Now, we can have a search warrant here in less than an hour, if you wish, but it would be a great help if you would allow us access.”

“I do not know. What if it is not the same man…the one you want?”

Frankie shot her partner a look, which sent him walking toward the car.

“No! No! No!” Patel said rapidly, stopping Thom after only a few steps. “I will let you in. Jira,” he called to his wife, finishing the sentence in his native language. She disappeared momentarily, then returned with a key. “Come. Come.”

The agents followed the diminutive man to the gate, which he opened with a card, and on to the small storage space. Daryl stayed outside near the window, still somewhat perplexed by what was happening.

The door to the space was orange, and only slightly larger, both in height and width, than an ordinary entry door.

“I’ll take the key,” Frankie said. “Would you wait back by the gate?”

Thom waited for the owner to get out of earshot. “Do you think it’s tricked?”

Frankie shook her head. “Why would it be? These guys were interested in getting in and out, clean and quick. Jackson, too, I figure. The car they used wasn’t booby-trapped. These guys had specific targets, which means that random killing just doesn’t fit. Plus, what if someone had opened this up before they did their deed? It might have been enough to spook the Service.” She ended with a raised-eyebrow invitation for rebuttal.

“So why have him move back?”

Frankie grinned. “What if I’m wrong?”

Thom coughed, half laughingly and half from the realization that she could be right. “It’s comforting to know that you and I will be the only victims.”

The key clicked upon being inserted. Without hesitation Frankie turned it, and the door swung an inch inward once released. Thom pushed it farther until it stopped against an inside wall, then he reached in, feeling for a light switch. “Here goes.”

It was a single-bulb fixture on the ceiling in the room’s center, but bright enough to clearly show the contents. Frankie didn’t have to move any closer to see the pile of wooden boxes against the back wall. Idiots! she thought to herself. She looked at Thom, whose smile was that of a satisfied cop.

“Does the term jackpot have any meaning, pardner?” she asked, getting a congratulatory handslap in response.

There should have been a share-and-share-alike attitude among those that might do the same job, but that would be in a perfect bureaucratic world. McAffee knew the realities, so the delay — a nearly three-hour one — in his getting details on the HRT plan was expected. They had it now, which was what counted. Ten copies of the ten-page assault plan were in the hands of the team, all of whom sat around a rectangular table beneath the 747’s left wing.

“Interesting,” Graber mumbled quietly halfway through the brief, which included operational details and several diagrams.

The HRT plan — code-named RETRIEVER — was radical in concept. Its basis was the belief by the Bureau’s psychological advisers and criminal behaviorists that the terrorist could not wear and keep active the deadman’s vest for the duration of the hijacking. Aside from being physically draining, the emotional trials that one would have to endure, knowing that a slip would mean death, and failure, would be degrading. Therefore, the head doctors theorized, he must take it off after takeoff and put it back on after landing.

It was during the latter when the HRT plan called for the assault to take place. As the 747 slowed on the runway, two Bureau Blackhawk helos would approach from the rear with four agents slung beneath each on STABO rigs. Before the jet stopped, the men would be deposited on each wing, where they would blow the number three doors, perform an entry, and neutralize the hijackers.

McAffee let each man finish examining the plan. “Okay, troops, tear it apart.” He paused for a few seconds. “Anyone?”

“The op is good,” Antonelli said halfheartedly. “At least detail wise.”

Quimpo nodded. “I agree. It’s doable, but tricky. Really tricky.”

Sean flipped back to the second page, finding his point of reference. Joe Anderson, sitting on his right, saw this, and also the quizzical look on the captain’s still boyish face.

The major did too. “Problem, Captain?”

Sean’s head came up. “Sir. Sorry, what was that?”

“You seem engrossed. Is our discussion disturbing you?”

Graber laid the stapled stack down. “Maybe it’s me, but this is a pile of shit.” The veteran officer leaned in. His blue eyes were serious and cold against an expressionless face. “The plan for the actual takedown is good, but pretty standard. Even the entry isn’t all that stunning. We considered something like it back in eighty-seven. It would have worked on smaller jets, where they’d need only four men, maybe. That’s my biggest concern with the operational side of it. Those helos would have to stay out near the wingtips to make sure their rotors cleared each other, unless they came in one at a time — but there’s nothing in this about that. It calls for a simultaneous insertion and entry.”

“There’d be about sixty seconds of lag if they separated,” Buxton figured.

“Nah,” Antonelli contradicted him. “Their helo jocks must be as good as ours, and ours could do it in half a minute easy.”

“With four guys on rigs swinging below?” Buxton retorted.

Antonelli shrugged. “Maybe.”

McAffee took it in. “Good call, Captain. Anything else?”

“Sure. It won’t work even if they get in position perfectly. Look at the second page, at the psych profile.” Graber waited until everyone had found the place. “Let me ask you this — if you were that guy on the plane, when would you be most nervous: touchdown or takeoff?”

The understanding was obvious on the major’s face, while the rest of the team exchanged looks of realization.

“I sure as hell wouldn’t be feeling at ease if I were about to land in a potentially hostile environment, or anywhere for that matter. I’d have that security blanket on, just in case, until I was in the air.”

He was right. The team knew it. Graber’s seldom used nickname was TR, for ten ring, the centermost circle on a pistol target. Sean could put round after round through practically the same hole. The moniker also lent itself to his ability to analyze a given problem or situation past the cursory and simplified look others usually gave. He saw what others did not in many instances, a sensory ability born more of an instinctive nature than of any training he had received. It was valuable to the team and, thankfully, not a sporadic talent.

McAffee gave his copy a last look. “So, is there anything usable from this?”

Graber shook his head. “They’ve got it backward, sir. He’ll be at ease after takeoff, and their plan doesn’t work in reverse.”

“There’s no doing that wing-walking crap when the bird’s gonna fly,” Antonelli said.

It was frustrating…damn frustrating. The Bureau plan wouldn’t work, and Delta, as yet, hadn’t been able to come up with anything better. McAffee pulled a breath of the cool, humid air deep into his lungs. It was representative of the weather outside, cold and becoming downright nasty. He looked up at the hangar’s ceiling. Maybe the weather and their surroundings were a visual and emotional echo of the real problem. They were cut off, isolated from the bad guys. Whoever put this thing together had known their stuff. A terrorist with brains, the major thought. Perfect! Security was airtight. They couldn’t be touched, but they had to be.

“We need something. Something to work with. The colonel wants an op ready to go in one hour.”

Buxton’s blond flattop bobbed up. “What about the lean plan?”

“Not with this one,” McAffee responded. The lean plan was a sort of off-the-shelf rescue whose operational details could be tailored to make it work with most situations.

A few seconds of silence passed, feeling more like minutes.

“It’s tough, sir.” Graber flattened the suspect page of the report with both hands. “I just don’t see any openings yet.”

“Look!” McAffee shouted. “We don’t have much time, if any. The word could come in a minute, or in ten, or in an hour, and we are going to have a goddamn debacle here unless we’re ready to jump at the word go! Do you think Iran was bad? You haven’t seen anything. We haven’t seen anything. We fucked up back then, but no innocents lost their lives. That’s forgivable. But if we go in without a workable plan and slaughter a bunch of hostages like the Egyptians did, then we’ll certainly be in the shit, or dead — probably both.”

The team wasn’t accustomed to Blackjack blowing his lid. That was a show of emotion, something that wasn’t supposed to happen. But they hadn’t faced anything quite like this before, a situation with two possible outcomes: bad and worse. They had seen their leader angry before, but never out of control. He, too, was at a loss for a solution.

Sean, however, heard none of the tirade past a reference the major had used. The light had gone on, instantaneously as usual. But… You’re nuts, Sean. It’s ludicrous. It’s… It’s…

“Sir.”

“Captain,” McAffee breathed more than spoke.

Graber was tentative beginning. “This may sound crazy, but humor me. Triple Seven might’ve fucked up royally,” he allowed, referring to the botched attempt by Egyptian counter-terrorists to rescue passengers from a hijacked EgyptAir jet at Malta’s Luqa airport in 1985, “but there may be something we can use.” He went on for nearly five minutes, outlining his idea as everyone listened silently.

“This is nuts!” Joe exclaimed. “You want everyone dead? This’ll do it.”

The major eyed him. “Mr. Anderson, if this works will your job be affected in any way? Will you still be able to deal with whatever is in the belly of that bird?”

Anderson swallowed hard, his eyes scanning the men around the table. He knew the comment was meant to put him in his place, separate from the warriors. In real comparison, he was simply a technician, but one with enough years behind him to know when to accept a mild slap. “If it works…not at all.”

McAffee’s voice eased. “Then we’ll get on with the operational details, and leave you to your preparations.”

The metal legs screeched as Joe slid his chair back. The team watched the civilian move into the adjoining office. They also knew that he could be absolutely correct in his analysis of their chances.

The discussion was picked up again, and carried on for ten minutes before McAffee summoned Colonel Cadler. If they were going to offer up something this outlandish, then there would have to be a stamp on it from the GFC. The approval would be for the real brass, not for Delta. The troops knew that their word would be sufficient for the colonel. If they liked it, and wanted to go with it, then so would he.

Graber laid it out again. This time some of the team’s added contributions were incorporated.

“That’s a damn bold idea, Captain. It’s yours, I take it.”

“The basic idea, sir. Everybody fed in on the last hashing.”

Cadler turned to his second. The smile was slight, but noticeable. “Major, if this is it, then it’s a go from me. Pappy will go for it, too, so don’t worry about any upper-echelon bull.” He stopped and pulled on his baseball-style fatigue cap. “Get with the tech boys to work on those charges. The captain here’s right when he says they’re going to have to be right on the money. Power and placement.” Cadler paused momentarily. “Maybe we better get the crew of this bird here to help on the placement end of things. They might be able to give us something on the structural side.”

“That could be a factor,” McAffee agreed.

“With this cockamamie plan, you’d better believe it.”

“I’ll get them over here.”

“Good,” the colonel bellowed. “Damn good work. Now… perfect it. Run it through, up and down, all around. I want to give Pappy the word in three hours that we’re ready to go with this plan. Enough time?” The troops agreed that it was. “Damn fine work, men. Jesus, this is good work!” Cadler smiled openly, if quickly, before walking away. At the office door he looked back at the men. His men. He was proud of them and their harebrained scheme, mostly because he was sure they could make it work.

Progress drove Art. It inspired him as much as frustration, only the feeling was better. His pen attacked the legal pad.

There are now two direct links between Jackson and the suspects: (1) Filings found on the floor of Jackson’s bedroom have been identified as metal residue from the sanitizing of one of the two M-16A2 rifles. He looked to the technical brief from Jacobs. It was his job to paraphrase and de-techspeak the information, which would go into his report to the director. Analysis has determined that metal samples are a perfect match. Art decided to drop ‘something or other spectroanalysis’ for brevity, since such terms usually took twenty or thirty words to explain in everyman’s English. (2) Packing crates for the weapons were found in a public storage facility that had been rented by Jackson, pointing to a pickup by the assassins. A melted plastic access card was found with one of the assassin’s bodies, and it matches those used by the facility in composition and appearance. To Art it was a lump of plastic, but the lab, as always, worked its miracles once it had something to compare the lump with.

The office reverberated with a loud knock.

“Come in, Ed.”

Toronassi grinned his way in.

“You sound like you’re serving warrants,” Art joked.

“It gets me in. You got any java?” Eddie saw the almost empty pot before an answer came. There was always a pot in his boss’s office, full or not. “Hey, you want something good for the director — well, maybe it’s good.”

Art took the two fax copies. “What do we have?”

“Relatives.” Eddie leaned over the desk and pointed to the top sheet. “We found two brothers of ol’ Marcus, but that’s all for close blood. Once we talk to them there may be some aunts or something. Who knows.”

Interesting. “The older one has quite a tail.”

Eddie nodded in mid sip. “That’s how we found him. Ernest Jackson is a scuzzball, if only a minor one. Guess it runs in the family. GTA and ADW are the biggest, but no deaths yet.”

“Didn’t break into the majors.”

“Lucky for a lot of folks. He’s got a bunch of other stuff with the biggies, going back a long way. Most of it’s violent in one way or another.”

The present whereabouts box caught Art’s eye. “He’s in Joliet. What for?”

Eddie twisted his neck uselessly, then walked around behind the dark wood desk. “Looks like assault with intent and grand theft. Must be federal.”

“He could play a part in this,” Art said as he pressed hard on his tired lids. “Contacts for the weapons, maybe. At least this keeps the trail moving in the same direction.”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what? I’ve been hunting these guys down most of the afternoon.”

It was Art’s turn to share some good news. “Frankie and Thom struck pay dirt again.”

“Who smiled on them?” Eddie was glad it had been Francine Aguirre. She was a good agent, and had worked her ass off to shake any misgivings about female street agents. It wasn’t supposed to be that way in these days of so-called equality, but old doubts died hard.

“They found the weapon stash in one of those storage places. You know, thirty bucks a month for a room or garage. Lois and I used to keep our RV in one of them.” Until we sold it…had to sell it, by some damn court order.

The Italian-American agent’s pearly whites shone more. “Like she thought.”

“Yep. The crates and all the packing stuff were still there. Markings and all. The stuff came from an Army facility in Illinois, so…”

“What?” Eddie jumped in.

“What’s wrong?”

“The source, boss. Look at the other brother’s info. PFC Samuel Jackson, currently stationed at Rock Island Army Munitions Depot…in Illinois.”

“That’s a nuke and chemical facility.”

“Right,” Eddie said. “Which means they’d have plenty of guards, and plenty of firepower. They’ve gotta store the stuff somewhere.”

Art scanned the page. Samuel Jackson was just a kid, literally. In uniform for just over eighteen months. “How long has he been there?”

“A year, about.”

Ed was silent as Art read over the full report. Samuel, the youngest of the Jacksons, could have been the source of the guns and LAWs, which would have put Marcus in the middleman position. It was unlikely that Marcus was behind the whole thing, even more so now that they knew of his little brother’s military connection. Still, he might have been the front man in L.A. That, too, was hard to swallow completely. Nothing pointed to Marcus being either a brainy sort or one with any tangible relations to the Khaleds. There was more. Somewhere, if Art was piecing this together correctly, there would be a tie-in. A college professor had once told him that the road to certainty was paved with coincidences. That wisdom of yesteryear was now proving itself in spades.

“Ed, find out what Sam here does in the Army — what his MOS is. Then let’s run down big brother Ernest’s background. I’m going to call Jerry and ask him to hold the director off on this report.” Art tapped the yellow pad. “Okay?”

“You got it,” Eddie answered with renewed purpose. “We’re getting warm, you know.”

“Let’s run with it then.”

The pillows were stacked up against the headboard with his favorite down one at the top. It cradled Bud’s tilting head. He wasn’t tired, yet, being more engrossed in thoughts that tumbled in his head than with the preliminary report from Granger lying on his outstretched naked legs. It was neat, and bound. He wondered how it was that all reports, no matter how rushed, always came attractively packaged. Was there an undersecretary for that?

He shook the mental cobwebs away. Content wise the report was solid. The plans, though incomplete, were thorough. The operation would hurt the Libyans, probably with few civilian casualties, though that was a minimal concern to Bud. Some still held with the belief that innocents in a hostile place were to be safeguarded at all cost. He had never been able to grasp the logic. But then he had the luxury of being a military man. It wasn’t a question of playing by some unwritten set of chivalrous rules, which more often than not tied the hands of those on the righteous end of the stick. It was a question of reality, and of the future good. The greater good. A hundred enemy innocents now, or two hundred American innocents later.

Still, with all the justification and the culpability, not to speak of the moral issues of correctness, Bud couldn’t come to reconcile himself with the belief that this would do much more than hurt those who stood in the light, albeit a light of “evil.” It was those in the shadows who struck without warning, and it was they who would walk away with blood on their hands but little, if anything, on their conscience.

Jesus, Bud! What do you expect?

The bottle of Evian on the nightstand was less than half full, and a long draw later it was gone. Bud realized that he’d rather it were a beer. Oh well — the sacrifices of public service.

Those who had precipitated this with their surreptitious bravado filled Bud’s mind before it could lock on to anything tangible. Who were they? Almost certainly the former DCI and DDI, but what about higher-ups, and what about those in lower ranks? Had the order, or even the general inference of authorization come from the president? Or, as Landau believed, were the former heads of the Agency the source of the turmoil? That would make the most sense, Bud agreed. The Iran-Contra fiasco had proven one thing: The odor of shit drifts upward rapidly. A chief executive could not expect, in the age of the media circus, to distance himself from scandal, even one that ignorance of was a truthful defense.

It was almost unfathomable. Executive underlings had done it again, only this time their actions had led to the death of a president — and not even the one they served under!

The pillows’ soft bulk caught Bud’s head. It bobbed backward, and then the rest of his body slid until he lay almost flat on the bed.

He could feel the coldness of the plastic report cover on his legs. A lift of his knee slid it off.

Was the military option the right one? You’re supposed to be answering questions. Bud.

Damn! he thought. In those thirty-five pages was a plan that would work, but would it work right? It was another question, but at the moment he had little else. Certainly not any perfect answers.

In the morning he might need to recommend a strike to the president, and, he knew now, it would not be with a ready conscience. The public would support it if it became a necessity, but the long-term results would be practically nil. Maybe that’s what bothered him the most. Even the experts and so-called authorities agreed that large-scale retaliation usually only fomented further acts of terror. Tit for tat, where our tit led to their tat. The experts, Bud reminded himself, said that negotiations were the best hope for preventing future occurrences, if they were meaningful and binding.

“But who the hell is the antagonist?” he asked aloud. Who was the protagonist and who was the antagonist? Right and wrong. Did prevention mean giving the terrorists what they wanted, if only in part? Was it good to look at an issue with irrational, evil persons and search for common ground? Was it right?

“No!”

Bud brought the backs of his hands up to his eyes, blocking out the soft light. If only the goddamn rogues had succeeded there would be no problem. Qaddafi would be gone. The source would be eliminated.

Bad analysis, Bud knew. It had been an easy out, the tainted blood option, but too slow. Too much chance of discovery, the exact nightmare they were living now.

Right target, wrong method, wrong avenue of decision. It could have been right, and legitimate, and successful, with only God being the final arbiter of its righteousness. Those involved would be called on the carpet in the hereafter. Time enough to convince oneself of absolution, Bud figured.

The last thought scared him, and enlightened him. He pulled himself up on his elbows, looking into the semidarkness of the hallway to the bathroom, and wondered if wrong could be manipulated into right.

Hadad’s eyes opened peacefully from a dream-free sleep. His education would contradict that thought, his teachers having told him, and the other medical students, that all people dreamed during sleep. He could break from that part of his past now, too. Allah had cleared his mind. Cleansed him, actually. Completely. It had to happen so that the purpose would be achieved with purity.

He reached to his left and slid the shade up in the porthole like window. Not much like a ship’s porthole, he decided, having spent weeks on a ship during his transit of the Atlantic to the medical college in Buenos Aires years before. That had been enjoyable and frightening, being on the sea the first time, especially since all that surrounded the converted freighter was endless water.

Through the thick upper-deck window he could see the first sheets of yellow coming from the sky over the buildings to the plane’s left. It was still dark inside the lounge where he sat, and quietness filled the aircraft like a void. All below were asleep, or silently praying, or, if infidels, they simply were contemplating the last few hours and those still to come.

He rolled sideways in the wide seat and pulled his fatigue coat up over his neck. One of his comrades must have covered him when the chill snuck up on the desert during the night. His arm came up and twisted toward the incoming light. Almost five-thirty in the morning, or was it? Yes, he had adjusted the time. Five-thirty it was. Hadad leaned forward and tried to twist and stretch the sleep from his muscles. Soon he would need to start what would be a long journey. Not in time or distance, but in change. Every journey had a beginning and an end, a truism that Hadad knew was false for himself. Arrival at the final destination was but his first step toward a reunion.