Terror At Dawn

ELEVEN

“Mr. President,” the Director of Homeland Security said warmly, striding with confidence into the Oval Office. “Thank you for”—he caught sight of the man already seated in front of the President’s desk, and finished, after a noticeable pause—“seeing me.”

Jeremiah Horton was a large man who looked like the college linebacker he had been. He had a reputation as a gruff no-nonsense man, one who was more comfortable as a manager than as a leader. Like many men in the current Administration, he had had no military service. However, a distinguished career in the Senate had led to his appointment to the newly formed Homeland Security and Defense Office. He enjoyed the challenge of setting up the new cabinet-level post, and he prided himself on the exceptionally smooth integration of HSD with the rest of the President’s Administration.

Nevertheless, the birth of HSD had not been without problems. Notably among them, the man he was now surprised to see. Carl Chassen, FBI director of operations, his counterpart — although a lesser rank, since his was not a Cabinet-level post — had been a continual thorn in his side. The FBI saw conspiracies everywhere. Most particularly now, they were focused on what they believed was a plot to strip the FBI of its powers in domestic law enforcement.

Publicly, HSD had repeatedly assured both the FBI and the public that nothing was further from the truth. HSD would merely serve as a clearinghouse, a coordinator of the various agencies having law-enforcement responsibilities within the U.S.

Privately, the struggle for control of domestic intelligence operations was another matter altogether. The FBI, the DEA, and the ATF all viewed every “coordinating policy” as an infringement on their territories. Each one guarded its turf jealously, sharing information with its sister agencies only when there was something they wanted in exchange or when they were forced to. In the last week, the situation had escalated, with the CIA treating a simple overture for cooperation of operations like a frontline assault. No matter that it had been a simple request for information coupled with an informal suggestion that HSD quite reasonably had an interest in those matters occurring overseas that were likely in the immediate future to affect the United States internally. No matter that the artificial boundaries created by legislation between the various agencies only serve to drain off resources that the fledgling HSD coveted. But last week, ah — that had been the kicker. The CIA, noting the HSD’s growing stature within the Administration, seemed to have instituted a new policy of complete noncooperation. In at least one private conversation, the director of the CIA had blandly suggested that for security reasons it made more sense, in some situations originating overseas, for the CIA to be the lead agency when the action moved into the United States itself.

Horton had been outraged. The CIA’s maneuver was clearly a grab for power, one that overstepped the bounds of its charter. The CIA was explicitly forbidden to have any role in domestic security. Yet here they were, suggesting that HSD was not to be trusted with highly classified and sensitive information developed from the CIA sources. No matter that everyone in HSD had undergone rigorous security screenings, and that their administrative procedures and security measures were modeled on the very best techniques now in use in other agencies. No, it was a daring move, but one that would fail. There was no way that the President would let the CIA assume control of any operations inside the United States.

The FBI, however, was another matter entirely. Horton knew that they were frothing at the mouth over HSD’s charter role inside the United States. It was, the FBI had argued, the essence of their charter — law enforcement inside the United States, most particularly those matters that constituted crimes. And weren’t all terrorist acts and preparation for them criminal acts? Why reinvent the wheel? The FBI was hoping, not so secretly, that Horton and his crew would fall on their faces. The FBI would be ready to step and to take over their role.

Chassen was the primary instigator. He had always been ruthlessly power-hungry, as far back as Horton could remember. Now, to see him sitting in on what Horton had fondly anticipated as a private meeting with the President was an unexpected slap in the face.

“Horton, come on in,” the President said easily, pointedly ignoring the brief spasm of distaste that had floated across the other man’s face. “We were just talking about the situation in the Middle East.”

“Will there never be an end to it?” Horton said, shutting the door behind him and walking over to the unoccupied chair. He settled into it lightly with surprising grace. “If only they could settle their differences and bring some peace to that part of the world — I wonder if it will happen in our lifetime.”

He saw similar expressions of cynicism on the face of both the President and the FBI director. “No. Of course not,” the FBI director said, as though surprised Horton would even suggest it. “Why should they start now? War is the natural state of affairs for them.”

“You have a cynical view of the world,” Horton said stiffly.

“Don’t you?” the President asked. “Come on, Jeremiah. Have you seen anything in the last twenty years — hell, make that the last two hundred years — to suggest that there’s any possibility of peace in that region? Even if Israel disappeared, the Shiites and Suni Muslims would still fight. And they’d exterminate the same Palestinians they claim Israel is persecuting now, if indeed there are any such people, on their own.”

Horton wished desperately he been in on whatever conversation had preceded his arrival. Clearly the President and the FBI director were singing the same tune, and he wondered what had led up to it. “One can always hope and pray for peace, Mr. President,” he said gravely. “Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

“No, of course not,” the President said, looking at Horton with a slightly bemused expression on his face. “Not unless I transferred you over to State and forgot about it.”

Horton joined in the general laughter that followed that weak attempt at a joke. “I’ll expect to see an increase in my travel budget, then,” he added.

“Those frequent-flier miles to Idaho can really add up,” the FBI director said.

Horton nodded gravely. “Bull Run, of course. I have to tell you, Mr. President, we don’t like the way things are looking up there. From the reports we’re getting, there’s a good deal of potential for civil unrest. You know that with the mind-set up there and the militia presence, I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

“It’s not just the locals,” Chassen interrupted. He shot Horton a sardonic look. “Abraham Carter — you know the name?”

Horton didn’t but he had no intention of admitting it. “What is his involvement?” he asked, trying for a knowing, world-weary tone.

Chassen ignored the question. “Abraham Carter — with his son, he’s active in the Free America Now organization. We’ve been following their purchases and tracking their movements over the last month. All at once — Bull Run — and they go to ground.”

“We’re on the lookout for them.” Horton said, as though it was old news.

“You won’t find them.”

“Because you didn’t?”

“Exactly.” Chassen turned back to the President, who wore an impatient expression. “Sir, our intelligence indicates they’re planning a major move of some sort. Something to call attention to the government abuse of power in summarily executing that family and the kids. From what we know, it could be on the order of Oklahoma City.”

“Or Waco. Or Ruby Ridge,” Horton said. “For that matter, Bull Run.”

“Gentlemen,” the President snapped. “I did not ask for your presence in order to oversee a playground squabble. Frankly, we would have had this meeting earlier if I had had the time and patience. I, for one — and I’m the only one you have to worry about — am tired of seeing your infighting unfold on ACN. There will be no more of that — do I make myself clear?”

Horton’s heart sank. He’d been expecting to be at the President’s side as he dealt with Bull Run, and he was getting an ass-chewing instead. And in front of the FBI at that.

Both men were wise enough to not pretend ignorance. “OK,” the President continued. “Now, Bull Run — a major foul-up all around. It’s done, we screwed the pooch, and now we need to clean up after ourselves. No coverups, no casting blame, no turning this into political fodder. I will admit that the missions of HSD and the FBI overlap in a number of areas. I expect and I intended for there to be that overlap.” Horton started to point out that Bull Run had been an FBI operation from start to finish. HSD, despite their protests — and a good thing that was now, in retrospect — had had no input into the mission. Neither the President nor the FBI knew that HSD had intended to mount a far more aggressive mission than the FBI had actually executed.

“We are going to learn from our mistakes,” the President continued. “You know as well as I do that the whole concept of posse commitatus is under review now. I have signed an order authorizing a limited suspension of posse commitatus for the limited purpose of responding to anything else that may happen at Bull Run. Now, I don’t want this misinterpreted, not by you or by the press. We screwed up. We’ll take responsibility for it. But if Carter and his people are up to something”—and his tone of voice indicated that the President was more familiar with them than Horton was—“then we’ll be ready for it. And because both of you have an ox to gore, particularly if military force is used inside the United States, I plan on using an independent entity to coordinate operations there.”

“An independent agency?” Horton asked, incredulous.

“An independent entity,” the President said, emphasizing the last word. “This will be a trial run integrating military active and reserve forces with all our intelligence and law-enforcement agencies to quell a potential civil disturbance. I’m taking the rather radical approach of assigning a a civilian defense contractor to conduct a threat analysis and propose an operational plan.”

Horton’s jaw dropped. “Civilians? What sort of civilians? You mean like military reserve officers?”

“In a manner of speaking. The initial planning stages will be under the control of a defense contractor known as Advanced Analysis.”

The President waited, smiling slightly as he saw both men rapidly sift through their memories, trying to place the name. Chassen got it first, as the President had expected. “The Magruders, right? Nephew and uncle? They were in on that mission last year when we—”

“Need to know,” the President cautioned, shooting the FBI director a sharp look.

Now Horton was seriously worried. What had the Magruders — and, yes, now he remembered who they were — been involved in that he didn’t know about? That the FBI did? Inside the United States, or outside? And if the latter, why did the FBI know at all?

“Between them, these two men have well over sixty years of combat experience,” the President continued. “I was impressed with them both when they were on active duty, and even more so since then. So, to prevent what should be a relatively simple planning operation from turning into a turf war, they’re my guys.”

“But the actual execution of any plan—” Horton began.

The President cut him off. “May be completely unnecessary. If we get to that point—if—I’ll make my decision then. Clear? And I might point out that one factor I will consider is how well both of you have worked with the Magruders.” He fixed them with a steely glare. “You both work for me. You do remember that, don’t you?”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Horton murmured, echoed immediately by the FBI man.

“Well, then.” The President leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “There’s no need for either of you to contact the Magruders just yet. I told them that you are both completely at their disposal the moment they have any requirements. Information, resources, even advice — they ask for it, you ante up. Got it?”

A Cabinet-level appointee and he’s treating me like I’m a schoolchild. Horton glanced over to see how the FBI was taking it, but could learn nothing from the man’s expression.

Clearly, they were dismissed. Both men rose and almost in unison said, “Thank you, Mr. President.” They filed out of the office.

They were silent until they were outside the Oval Office and well down the corridor. Then the FBI officer glanced up at Horton, a much larger man, and said, “Guess we just got sent to detention.”

“It is a most unusual way of approaching it,” Horton said stiffly. “I can only hope that the Magruders are up to it. All of their experiences are overseas. Frankly, I would be surprised if they could even locate Idaho on a map.”

“Oh, I suspect they know where it is,” Chassen said calmly. “They both attended a school there — the nuclear trading prototype program, you know. It’s always been in Idaho.”

“Right, a few weeks on the Navy base in the middle of nowhere and they’re experts on domestic terrorism,” Horton snapped. He had not known there were any Navy bases in Idaho other than a few reserve facilities.

Chassen slapped Horton on the back, and Horton drew back, affronted. “Hey, look. We both just got handed our asses on a platter. I think we better try to play nice and get along, don’t you? At least, that’s what the boss wants.”

“I would hardly call interagency cooperation a matter of playing nice.”

The FBI director’s smile vanished. “OK. Then don’t play nice. I, for one, am going to do exactly what the President wants. And if I find out you’re screwing things up or that you’re holding out on the Magruders, I will personally kick your ass. And that, my friend, clearly does not fall within the definition of playing nice on the playground.”

Fifteen minutes later, A. J. Bratton knew about the President’s plan. Twenty minutes later, he had a plan of his own.

UN Ambassador Sarah Wexler thought of herself as a woman possessed of extensive reservoirs of patience and understanding, but even her resources — not so extensive as she believed — were being tested to the limit by the intransigence of certain nations. Pakistan, for one. India, for another. The squabbling over the borders, cultures, and atrocities each claimed the other had committed was a constant refrain in the United Nations. No matter that the Middle East was set to erupt again at any moment and that some dissident group had committed an act of war against an American carrier. No matter that North Korea was ranting about reunification again, that Russia’s fledgling economy was failing and dragging the rest of the former Soviet Union down in turn, and that China had a large number of military assets circling the Spratley Islands. Any one of those situations could mean a serious worldwide crisis, and it wouldn’t take much to set off any of those tinderboxes. And yet Pakistan and India aired their dirty laundry in public as thought it were the only issue into world. Hell, she was even more concerned about Chinese atrocities in Tibet that she was about India and Pakistan, and that was saying a lot.

It was getting worse every day, and today in particular had seen a spate of demands, requests, and accusations that had escalated to a feeding frenzy. Was there something about the alignment of the planets with a full moon or something? She was starting to believe that the entire world had chosen that particular morning to go completely insane.

There seemed to be no getting away from it. The ambassador from Pakistan was at her side now, long brown fingers plucking gently at her sleeve, his singsong voice grating on her ears in soft, confidential tones. “We would like to know where America stands,” he said, obviously finishing up whatever argument she’d been ignoring. “I think there is some basis for claiming your attention on this matter.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “There are many matters on the calendar this month, though. And pressing problems around the world.”

He drew back slightly. “The United States did not think Pakistan so inconsequential when it wished to invade Afghanistan.”

“We did not invade Afghanistan.”

He gazed at her steadily. “So many bombs, so many troops — and you did not invade?”

“As you well know,” she said, her voice icy now, “we supported the Northern Alliance in retaking their country from a corrupt and repressive regime. I believe Pakistan has also benefited from the establishment of a more stable government in Afghanistan, has it not?”

The Pakistani shrugged. “To some extent. Less than your government has benefited from our support, I believe.”

“You believe wrong.”

He studied her for moment, then his face turned ugly. “You will regret this, Madame Ambassador. You will regret it.” He turned and stomped off, his back rigid with rage.

Wexler sighed as he went, and then turned to Brad, her aide. “That sounded like a threat to me.”

“Me, too.” Brad’s gaze was still fixed on the Pakistani as he watched the other man make his way across the main assembly room. “Can we do anything about it?”

Wexler grimaced. “Not more security, if that’s what you mean. I can barely go to the john by myself now as it is.”

“So what you do think he meant?”

Wexler turned back to watch the Pakistani, who was gathering a loud, vocal crowd around him. They were speaking in a number of languages, but the gazes were all directed at her. “I don’t know, but I expect we’ll find out shortly.” She paused for a moment, then, only half-kidding, asked, “Do you know anything about astrology?”