Terror At Dawn

TWELVE

Greenfield slumped back in his chair and rubbed the corners of his eyes with his fingertips. His eyes felt dry and dusty. It was an all too familiar feeling, one he’d felt so often during Desert Storm. It was the result of too many hours substituting coffee for sleep. He leaned back in his chair and let the muscles relax, or at least tried to.

If he wanted to look like a tough guy, one of the ones who wanted to go for hours and days and years without ever sleeping, he would have to dip into the top right drawer of his desk. There he kept two essential items for any FBI field agent: Tums and Visine.

But what was the point? After this debacle, he wasn’t even sure how much longer he had left at the FBI. It had been a total fiasco from beginning to end, and nobody was going to stop and remember that he’d been the voice of caution, that he’d questioned the plans and the information and the intelligence, that he’d argued against a nighttime surprise raid on the Smart residence.

No, what they’d remember was that he’d been the man on the ground, the man in command of a takedown that was starting to look an awful lot like Ruby Ridge. Somebody was going to have to pay for the failure, and Greenfield was pretty sure he knew who it would be.

Do I mind that much? Maybe I should retire, try to work out that disability claim. The way my back feels today, that sounds awful attractive.

Shame rushed through him. How could he think about his own future right now? Four people were dead, two of them children. And from the information that was coming out now, information they should have had before the raid, it was looking an awful lot like Kyle Smart, father of two and husband of Betsy, longtime resident of Bull Run, Idaho, hadn’t done a damn thing wrong.

Hell of a way to make an example. At least they ought to find somebody who actually was a crook, even if you overlooked the fact that they died like that. At least you’d have a cold comfort of knowing in your heart of hearts that the son of a bitch was absolutely beyond the shadow of a doubt guilty, no matter what the courts and the lawyers said. A scumbag, one that the earth was better off without.

How do you ever rationalize killing kids?

More and more, it was starting to look like Mr. Kyle Smart was nothing more than a bitter, disillusioned farm boy. Sure, he might have turned into a serious threat, given time. He was heading in that direction. Maybe somewhere down the road he would have joined one of the vicious little hate circles springing up around the isolated parts of the country, taking comfort in finding other people like himself. And maybe he would’ve gone further than that, but probably never beyond the planning stage. Few of the groups were, by their very nature, capable of carrying out any coordinated plan of action. Under the slightest difference of opinion, they disintegrated into warring factions, like a drop of mercury under pressure.

Kyle Smart would never get to that point. Not now. Not him, not his two sons, not his wife. All because someone somewhere in the Bureau had screwed up royally by letting the Homeland Security folks in on the deal. If it had been a Bureau decision alone, this never would have happened.

Maybe. Maybe not.

There was a short ring on the phone, signaling an internal call. He picked up the receiver and glanced at the status bar to make sure that the line was secure. “Greenfield.”

“Come up and see me.” The line went dead.

Nice guy. No hi, how are you, no name, no nothing. Just the command. Like everybody was supposed to recognize the cold, nasal accent from the Far Northeast immediately. A hell of an assumption.

Greenfield hauled his bulk out of the chair, silently vowing for perhaps the thousandth time he would get his butt to the gym more often.

The problem was that everyone did recognize that particular voice. No one mistook the voice of Carl Chassen, director of operations for the FBI, newly appointed to that post only six months ago and already making his mark on history as one of the most despotic ops directors ever.

Greenfield made his way up to the top floor, noting that the shabby government green paint on the walls was just ever so slightly less shabby at these levels. The carpet was cleaner, and might even have been laid within the last two Administrations.

He entered the director’s reception area and offered Chassen’s secretary a tired smile. She gazed at him sympathetically, her eyes showing their own signs of strain. “He’s waiting for you.” She gestured at the closed door behind her.

“Any advice?” he said halfheartedly. Janie Felts had on occasion made his job a little easier by giving him a hint about which way the wind was blowing, but not so now. Not that it was necessary. She looked away.

Hell of a nice lady, though. If I ever had more than just enough to cover rent and child support, I wouldn’t mind taking her out. Assuming she’d even go out with a special agent.

He let himself into the office, bracing himself for the worst. Chassen never yelled. He didn’t have to. The clinical precision with which he dissected his victims didn’t require it.

“Sit down, Hank.” Chassen’s voice was cold — but then, wasn’t it always?

Not “Have a seat, Hank,” or “Thanks for coming right up,” none of the social pleasantries that existed to make life flow just a little bit easier. They both knew Greenfield had no choice, that he would do as he was told. What was the point of rubbing his nose in it?

Greenfield sank into the available chair, suppressing a groan as he sank into it. He’d be damned if he’d let Chassen see him wince, not with what was coming.

“So. You blew it. I spent the morning at the White House taking the heat for it. Tell me why.” Chassen leaned back in his chair and interlaced his hands behind his head. A dangerous sign, one that exposed his midsection, indicating subliminally that he had nothing to fear from Greenfield.

“It went badly.”

Chassen arched one eyebrow at that and waited. It was a favorite tactic of his, saying nothing, provoking the agents into tumbling over their own words as they tried to fill the silence.

Greenfield was having none of it. He could wait as well. It was a skill born of long hours on stakeout as a junior officer, hours in which he could barely keep his eyes open. Then the sudden rush of adrenaline as the target appeared, when things started happening too fast to do more than react automatically to them.

He could feel the adrenaline course into his veins now, warning of the danger. It didn’t matter that it was not physical, other than the fact he could end up a homeless bum on the street without his paycheck. The limbic system didn’t distinguish between threats. It wasn’t designed to.

“Understatement,” said Chassen. Again, the silence.

I’ll be damned if I’ll talk. Not now. Nobody listened when I told them it would go wrong. Anything I say now will sound like an excuse. He settled for a noncommittal shrug.

“Well, then.” Chassen leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “Under the circumstances, I’m sure you’d welcome an opportunity to redeem yourself.” Again, the sardonic lift of one eyebrow. “You do well on this one, and a year from now nobody will remember Idaho.”

Right. No chance of that. And even if everybody else in the world forgot, I’d still remember it. For a moment, he heard the screams again, mixing with the noise of the fire.

“The President has decided to assemble a special task force to deal with situations such as this,” Chassen said, his voice betraying no opinion on the matter. “It will be composed of both American and Canadian military forces, as well as representatives from the appropriate law-enforcement agencies. Including, as deemed necessary, our brethren at the CIA. The President feels that we need to deal firmly with incidents such as these, bringing all of our assets to bear on a speedy and appropriate resolution. You’ll be heading up our contingent for the next operation.” Chassen stopped and waited, only a crease at the edge of his eyes betraying his amusement.

“When? And where?” Greenfield said, keeping his voice neutral.

“A few days from now. Back in Idaho. Since you’re already familiar with the area, that will save you some time. You can hit the deck running, as they say in the Navy. You were in the Navy, weren’t you?”

“Marine Corps.” As you well know, you bastard.

“Yes, of course. Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. Well, then, you should be right at home.” Chassen closed the folder he’d been studying and slid it across the desk to Greenfield. “The details aren’t finalized, but this is a rough draft of the composition of forces and rules of engagement for the next operations. Also budgeting and manpower allocations. As you can see, we’re throwing our full support behind this.” Again that sly look of amusement.

Sure. All the resources of the Bureau. And that includes the one agent that’s entirely expendable. That’s what you call giving the President full support? Greenfield took the folder without speaking. He didn’t open at. He waited.

Chassen appeared slightly unsettled. “Well, then. Study up on it and see me if you have any questions. You should be contacted by the military officer in charge within the next couple days to finalized details.”

“Military officer?” Greenfield said, not moving. “We’re on American soil.”

“Of course, the whole issue of posse commitatus. I think you’ll find that the whole doctrine will be changing shortly.”

Since the failure of domestic intelligence agencies to predict the strike against the World Trade Center, there had been increasing talk in Congress about giving the military a freer hand in domestic security. The problem was that the country was founded on a doctrine known as posse commitatus, a doctrine that prevented using federal military forces inside the United States for law-enforcement activities. The National Guard units, which were state units reporting to the governor, were not considered in this category unless “federalized,” i.e. called to active duty and placed into the military chain of command. The FBI had managed to work out some kinks in their operations with the National Guard to their mutual benefit, but other than some small cross-training, not with the regular military forces.

“So whose operation is it?” Greenfield asked again.

“Theirs. There’ll be a military commander. You’ll work for him.”

“Is that legal?”

Chassen shrugged. “The President seems to think so. I imagine it will be a test case of sorts.”

And no matter how it goes wrong, I’ll take the fall for it. The Justice Department will say I should have known better, I should’ve cleared it through them. But the whole thing will be wrapped up in so many security classifications that there’ll be no way to do that. I’m the sacrificial lamb.

“I see.” Greenfield stood, paused for a moment, then headed for the door. He could almost feel Chassen smiling behind him.