Terror At Dawn c-21

by Keith Douglass

  There couldn’t be. After all, the CIA had no jurisdiction inside the United States. There was no reason for Bratton or the CIA to even be involved.

  Yet.

  EIGHT

  The White House

  0800 local (GMT -5)

  The President kept his handwritten scribbles jotted down on election night in the top left-hand drawer of his desk. Although they were barely legible, the increasing disorganization reflecting his state of mind that night, he could still recite every number by heart. Looking at each stroke of the pencil, he relived his feelings of the moment when that state’s electoral votes were tallied.

  His mood swings were reflected in the scribbles: the broad, bold, and exuberant tally of California’s electoral votes, the dejected abbreviations trailing off as North Dakota and Idaho went to his opponent. And then, the state that had sent him over the edge to victory — Texas — written in almost incomprehensible scrawls of large letters suitable to the size of the state. Over and over again he had written the name, waiting for the number, and finally putting a big circle around it at the very moment Dan Rather announced the projected results.

  It had all been over then. Sure, the projected results could have been wrong, but they weren’t usually. Ever since the Bush-Gore debacle, the networks had been exceedingly cautious about announcing any information that might keep last-minute voters away from the polls.

  Texas. Who would have thought? They were joking that TX was just my shorthand for tax, and I guess that’s not going to be far from the truth.

  The cost of increased domestic security was mounting daily. Even his Homeland Defense Secretary, confident though he might be in public, was worried. Maintaining security in an open society was virtually impossible, and over the last few years they had begun to realize the full extent of the problem. Sure, there had been a decent start made on the problem, but he could not escape the feeling it was more for show than effect.

  Every day, he glanced at the scribbles, letting them remind him of those moments when he had been certain he would not be reelected, of the odd, unsettling feeling that in just a few hours he might become a lame-duck President, and just months after that an ordinary, mortal civilian, deprived of all the trappings of power and perks that came with this office.

  But that fate had been averted, and here he was, a better President than he’d been last term. He felt an increased freedom in his choices, free from the constraints of considering what effect his actions might have on public opinion, free to do what he thought best for the country regardless of public opinion and considerations of reelection.

  There had been a time not so many months ago when he’d fallen into that trap, of contemplating the political fallout from his decisions. That he’d let himself be caught up in that chafed even now.

  “Mr. President?” His Chief of Staff stood at the door, holding another scrap of paper. Were all great decisions made in this way, all important news scribbled notes on the backs of envelopes or on memo pads?

  “Yes, Jim?”

  “There’s been an incident, sir. The FBI, conducting a takedown at Bull Run in Idaho. Four fatalities, Mr. President. A man, his wife, and two children.”

  “They shot children?” A chill swept through him. The worst scenario possible — dead children, shot by federal agents.

  But looking at his Chief of Staff’s face, he knew he was wrong. Knew he was wrong and that the truth would be even worse.

  “No, sir. The tear-gas canisters — there was a fire, sir. The woman and the children were hiding in the basement and were trapped. They — it will take some time to identify the bodies, but we’re pretty certain who they are. There’s not much left.”

  A groan escaped his lips involuntarily. Children, burning. “How old?”

  “Eight and four.”

  The President slumped back in his chair. The sheer insanity and tragedy of it overwhelmed him. Children, dead in a fire. A fire caused by his agents.

  “There’s more, sir,” his Chief of Staff continued doggedly. “The agents weren’t in the house long, just long enough to seize his computer and a few other items before the fire broke out. But from what they’ve been able to determine so far, sir, he wasn’t the man they were looking for.”

  “What!” The President slammed his hands down on his desk, now outraged. “We killed children and it’s not even the right man?”

  The Chief of Staff stood silent. One of his roles in the Administration was to absorb any initial flack, calming the President down so that he could decide what his public move would be. He knew that none of what would follow was directed at him.

  “Get Bratton over here,” the President shouted. “I want to see that son of a bitch standing tall in front of my desk within the next ten minutes. Ten minutes, do you hear? Ten minutes or I’ll have his head!”

  “Ten minutes, sir.” The Chief of Staff left and closed the door quietly behind him.

  He would give it five minutes, he decided, before he went back into the Oval Office. A few moments for the President to collect his thoughts and decide what his next move would be. Bratton was still on his way back from Idaho, but the President wouldn’t want to hear that. Best to wait until he calmed down just a bit.

  In the Oval Office, the President buried his face in his hands. He had three children of his own, and the thought of anything happening to them, particularly such an inconceivable horror, was simply beyond contemplation. And it had happened because of something his people did — no, he couldn’t face it. Not right this second.

  Eventually he would. He had not survived the last four years, nor would he survive the coming term, by succumbing to raw emotion, no matter how painful. The simple fact was that when he made decisions, people died. Sometimes the enemy, sometimes his own troops.

  And now his own civilian citizens.

  Terrorism had to be stopped. With all the resources this nation had, there was no excuse for not being able to execute a mission without such tragic results. Something had gone badly wrong, and he intended to find out what it was. He pulled open the upper-right drawer and looked at the slip of paper again. The letters TX stared back at him, and for some reason that led him to think of a certain retired Naval officer — an admiral at that — who had a reputation for being able to get things done: Tombstone Magruder, on the pointy end of the spear in so many conflicts overseas. Now that he was a civilian, how would he feel about operating inside his own country?

  But why the Magruders? Why any civilians at all? He didn’t know why it seemed so important that they be involved, but he had long since learned to trust such strong intuitions.

  Four minutes had elapsed since he had sent his Chief of Staff out of the office, and he was beginning to calm himself, dividing the problem into the compartments inside his mind that he could examine at will. He stretched, stood, and walked to the door. He opened it and called out, “Jim?”

  The Chief of Staff was standing nearby, and immediately came over. The President felt an entirely inappropriate flash of amusement. Am I so predictable?

  “Sir, Mr. Bratton is on his way back from Idaho right now. It will be a few more hours until he lands.”

  The President said, “Track down the two Magruders, wherever they are. Work it out so that the Magruders are here before Bratton. Any questions?”

  “No, Mr. President.”

  “Sir, Senator Hamlin is calling,” one of the secretaries said, directing her announcement at the Chief of Staff. In addition to screening the staff from his boss’s raw emotions, the Chief of Staff also served to screen the President from those who felt they had a claim on his time.

  The President groaned. “The last thing I need.” Ben Hamlin, the Senior Senator from Idaho, had been one of the President’s most vocal opponents during the election.

  “I’ll take it,” the Chief of Staff said, heading for his own office.

  “No,” the President said wearily. “I’ll have to talk to him sooner or later. Better sooner, so
he doesn’t have a chance to go spouting off that I’m stonewalling him.”

  The Chief of Staff hesitated. “Are you sure, Mr. President? Perhaps we should take a few minutes to work out a statement.”

  The President shook his head. “No. I know what I’m going to say to him. It’s his state, Jim. He’s got a right to talk to me right now.”

  The President went back into his office and stared at the phone for a moment before touching the flashing number-one button and picking up the receiver. “Hello, Senator. What can I do for you?”

  The flat mountain tones were clearly audible, and sometimes the President suspected that the Senator intentionally deepened his accent. “I’m calling about this outrage, Mr. President. I just heard the most horrendous story from my staff, and I—”

  “Come over and see me, Senator,” the President said quietly. “Off the record — no announcements. No photo opportunities, no noise. Just get over here so we can figure out what happened. I’ll give you full access to everything we know.”

  There was a moment of silence on the line; then the Senator said, “All right. I’ll be there, sir. And I hope you have better answers than the ones I’m getting right now.”

  The phone went dead. The president felt a flash of rage. So he thinks he can just hang up on me, does he? For a moment, he was tempted to let the Senator cool his heels in the outer office once he arrived to show him where the power was around the White House. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it occurred to him.

  His Chief of Staff came back and said, “Sir, I found the Magruders at their office. They’re on their way over right now.”

  “Stall them,” the President said. He smiled a brief, wintry smile, aware of the incongruity of demanding that they dance attendance on him and then putting them in a holding pattern. But this was the White House — what was considered common courtesy in other parts of Washington was not an issue. They would understand. “Apologize to the Magruders for me and stash them somewhere that Hamlin won’t see them. Once I pour some oil on the water, I’ll let them ignite it.”

  Pamela Drake’s home

  0921 local (GMT -5)

  Pamela Drake was suffering from a severe case of jet lag. As a result, when the call came in, she was still at home, staring bleakly at her second cup of coffee and seriously contemplating calling in sick. It was an option, sure. Most of the reporters did it routinely the day after they returned from an assignment halfway around the world. But Pamela had built a reputation around being the toughest of them all, and had never taken advantage of that. Maybe it was time to start.

  The call came in on her cell phone, on the number she gave out only to certain people. It was the one she answered before all others, the ring at which she broke off whatever she was doing in order to take the call.

  Adrenaline surged through her as she grabbed the phone and touched the top button. Drake,” she announced.

  “Idaho,” said the voice. “It’s going to make Ruby Ridge looked like a picnic. Bull Run, way up on the Canadian border. You better get there.”

  “What happened?” she asked, grabbing a pencil and a piece of paper.

  “The FBI had the bright idea that they were taking down a master criminal. Only it turns out he was a nobody. In the process, the guy gets shot and his wife and kids trapped in a burning house. There’s some speculation that the fire was set to cover up the lack of evidence. A. J. Bratton was there.”

  Bratton! Holy shit. Why was the CIA involved in a domestic operation? “Were you there?” she asked, her fingers moving automatically to jot down notes.

  There was a long silence. She tried again. “Come on, now — that’s not a tough question.”

  Still no answer.

  “We’re off the record, you know. As far off as we can go,” she reassured her caller.

  “We’re talking about Idaho,” the voice said finally. “That’s inside the United States.”

  “I know that,” she said. “And I also know—”

  “No,” the voice said, cutting her off. “Not on this line.”

  “OK, then. What else?”

  “Nothing. You’ll have to get the rest of it somewhere else. I’m just paying back a favor.” The line went dead.

  Drake swore quietly as she touched the top button and slipped the phone back in its battery charger. Sure, she understood his reluctance to say anything on an open line. Cell phone frequencies were easy to monitor, and there were too many new government programs that searched for key words and phrases in every conversation that floated across the atmosphere.

  Without her informant admitting that he was there, the report was suspect. But if there were anything to it, it would be breaking soon. Drake had no illusions about how much of a head start she had.

  She stared at the phone for a moment, her gut telling her that this was something big. Regardless of how intra-agency cooperation was touted as a good thing, there was no way that any Congressional oversight committee would ever countenance the CIA conducting operations inside the continental U.S.

  So it had to be an FBI operation. Mentally, she ran through her list of contacts there, selected one, and dialed the number from memory.

  Five minutes later, Drake had all the confirmation she needed. Her two best sources at the FBI weren’t talking. Indeed, they weren’t even taking her calls. Even the prearranged code name she’d used, the one that signaled that it really was in their best interest to get on the telephone and talk to her to prevent the release of certain sordid details she knew about their past, even that had not worked.

  Something big is going down. I can feel it — I know it.

  She punched in the number of her boss at ACN, tapping impatiently on her breakfast room table as she waited. The last vestige of jet lag had been gone for several minutes now, and she felt like her old self. The nuclear furnace was burning in the pit of her stomach again, every newshound instinct screaming at her to move, get off her ass, and beat the competition.

  When her boss finally answered, she said, “I’m going to Idaho. Fly the camera crew to the capital, whatever the hell it is.” She tried to remember. She could name the capital of every obscure nation in the world, but it had been so long since she’d reported a domestic story that she found herself groping to even localize Idaho on a map.

  “Butte,” Harbaugh said. “What have you got?”

  “I’ve got a confirmed report that an FBI action in Bull Run, Idaho, went down and went down hard. Four civilians, including two kids, are dead, and my sources tell me that the Feebies got the wrong people. Have a camera crew and tech support meet me at Dulles with my tickets. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  She clicked off, knowing that every rudeness or lack of manners would be forgiven in the chase for the story. And regardless of how much he might dislike her high-handed manner, her boss would feel the same way. There would be a camera crew waiting for her, and probably an entire backup team from the local affiliate as well. And somewhere along the way, there would be a low-level eager national reporter to stand by her side and feed her trivial details. Starting with what the hell the capital of the state really was.

  NINE

  Barstow Pass, Idaho

  0930 local (GMT -7)

  As Abraham Carter listened to the voice on the other end of the phone call, he felt his blood pressure start to go up. Gus Anderson, a farmer in Bull Run who’d contacted him the week before about Free American Now, was claiming there’d been an abortion of an FBI raid on a neighbor’s farm. No one had seen the family since then, and smoke still stained the air from the vicinity of the Smart homestead. All the roads leading to or near the Smart farm were blockaded by civilians — if that’s what they really were. A neighbor in the National Guard had been ordered to report to the armory with gear packed for a two-week “exercise,” but according to Anderson, there’d been none of the normal pre-exercise preparation there.

  “Jackson,” Abraham shouted. “Get your ass in here and pick up the e
xtension. Now Gus, you were right to call me. I want you to start over again from the beginning.”

  His son, Jackson, ambled into the room from the kitchen and flopped down on a couch. Without comment, he picked up the other phone and listened to Anderson retell the story. His face remained impassive, even when Anderson’s voice choked as he described the Smarts’ children. After Anderson hung up, reassured by the senior Carter that they’d get to the bottom of it, Jackson rolled into a sitting position.

  “Feds killing people again,” his father muttered, his gaze staring off in the distance. “I told you, boy. It’s coming to a head real soon.”

  “And about time,” Jackson said, his voice soft and deadly.

  As outraged as he was, Abraham was disturbed by something in Jackson’s tone. He glanced over at his son, wondering again what combination of genes between him and Nellie had produced such an enigma.

  Physically, Jackson resembled his father more than his mother. He was tall, almost an inch taller than his father at six feet two inches, and built along the same lanky, rambling lines. His beard and hair were a shade darker than his father’s, picking up an almost blue-black sheen that he’d inherited from his mother. His eyes were all Nellie, though. Ice-green, flat, and unreadable, unlike his father’s own dark brown ones that burned with passion.

  But even if you could trace out the source of his son’s physical characteristics that wasn’t what bothered Abraham. It was the boy’s mind. Not that he was dumb — far from it. If anything, he had more sheer raw mental ability than either his father or his mother, and Abraham was no slouch in the brains department himself. Formerly employed as a chemical engineer for a large household products company, Abraham had excelled at analytical chemistry and synthesis. He was particularly keen on coming up with new ways to combine existing products to create another one that did pretty much the same stuff but could be relabeled as a new product.