Blink of an Eye

by William S. Cohen

  Falcone, who had never discussed Parker with Oxley, was tempted to call the President and asked what inspired his cryptic equation. But Stanfield’s speech and the war-plan meeting were enough; no one needed the distraction of Parker. Still, in some unfathomable way, Parker and The Brethren would be hovering over the meeting.

  45

  FALCONE USUALLY kept the small television set in his office tuned to GNN. This was his window on the world, the window where, with frustration and irritation, he so frequently saw that GNN was reporting news ahead of U.S. intelligence agencies. Today, however, he switched to C-SPAN, the only network officially allowed to transmit the televising of debate in the House and Senate chambers.

  After the President’s speech revealing a nuclear explosion in Savannah, Senator Stanfield had suspended his campaigning and returned to Washington. He had stayed out of the media spotlight until the announcement about his forthcoming speech “to America.” Its timing meant that C-SPAN’s coverage would stream into the networks and cable outlets exactly when their largest audiences were watching television.

  The Senate had convened late and suspended all business so that senator after senator could rise at his or her desk to speak on the disaster in Savannah. The visitors’ galleries surrounding the chamber were jammed with Hill staffers. As Falcone watched, the chamber became a cauldron boiling over with fiery speeches.

  Most senators demanded vengeance against nameless foes: “We must strike back” or “These murderers must pay.” One senator, seized by the wild justice of revenge, demanded immediate retaliation against Muslims in general: “We know these are the spiritual kin of the nine-eleven killers, sent by their Islamist masters to destroy our country.”

  The speeches were an overture to Stanfield, who now rose from his seat and appeared on Falcone’s television screen. He stood silently for a moment, looking around, suddenly the star of an operatic script that had brought him on stage at this moment. He wore a hand-tailored, blue pin-striped suit and a dark purple tie. His gray hair was cut stylishly just above his stiff, white collar. He looks straight out of GQ, Falcone thought. But he is no gentleman. He’s dressed up as a suave, courtly Southerner full of grace and affability. But it’s all artifice. He’s as mean and treacherous as a Texas rattlesnake.

  *

  FALCONE still had mixed emotions about the Senate. It had been a great institution, once populated by lions who fought passionately for the big issues of their day. Yet, they still managed to find the courage to put aside narrow self-interest and do what was best for the country. Today, few lions could be found on Capitol Hill. Many who bore the title of “honorable” seemed small-minded and parochial, dedicated principally to maintaining ideological purity. Compromise was unacceptable, and those who indulged in the art were punished at the polls. The center was no longer holding because centrists were treated as traitors to their political parties.

  To Falcone’s eyes, Stanfield was a perfect example of what was happening in Washington today. Dressed up in his finery, his cosmetic makeup expertly applied to smooth out lines and blemishes, Stanfield looked like a presidential candidate, a man who could lead the nation through troubled times. But Falcone knew that Stanfield was an unscrupulous politician eager to turn a great tragedy into a political opportunity.

  *

  “MR. President,” Stanfield began, addressing the Senate’s presiding officer in his chair that rose above the Senate chamber. Falcone reached for the TV remote and turned up the volume.

  “It is with a heavy heart and profound sadness that I take to the floor tonight,” Stanfield began. “I speak to you, my fellow countrymen, not as a presidential candidate, but as a member of this august body. I speak because a terrible thing was allowed to happen to our country. As one who shares the extraordinary responsibility to help ensure the safety, security, and welfare of all Americans, I have an obligation to come to you today to express my rage, my sorrow, and my convictions on what must be done.

  “Our nation has suffered an attack that is unprecedented in our history. One of America’s great cities has been destroyed by a nuclear bomb. Thousands of our citizens have been slaughtered, turned to ash in the blink of an eye. Thousands more may die from radiation poisoning or be maimed and disfigured for life.”

  Pausing, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and took out what looked to be three or four sheets of paper folded in thirds. Falcone instinctively leaned forward. Stanfield, a master of rhetorical stagecraft, slowly unfolded the pages.

  Holding up the pages, he said solemnly, “I have in my hand a list of the passengers who boarded the ill-fated Regal, the beautiful cruise ship that carried one hundred and forty-six souls on a voyage that ended in the Savannah River when they, along with the sixty-seven members of the Regal’s crew, were killed by the detonation of a nuclear bomb.”

  Again he paused. He lowered his left hand that was holding the pages and placed them on the desktop. Then he picked up one of the pages with his left hand and touched it six times with the index finger of his right hand. The chamber was eerily quiet.

  “Six of the passengers had Muslim names,” he continued, again pointing at six lines on one of the pages. “Two of them—two Iranians under assumed names. I repeat, two Iranians … were taken off the ship just prior to its departure from Boston and were allegedly placed in federal custody.

  “But it was too late.” Stanfield’s voice rose, then fell. “Too late,” he repeated.

  Again a pause.

  “What I am about to tell you will seem impossible to believe,” he said, his voice lowering.

  Falcone edged forward on his chair, drawn toward the screen by Stanfield’s mesmerizing performance.

  “Although those two Iranians were removed from the ship, their baggage remained on board when the ship left Boston.

  “That’s what I said. Their stowed baggage remained on board.

  “The two Iranians had carried a nuclear bomb aboard the Regal. But they had no intention to be on board when the bomb went off. Oh, no. These mass murderers were not suicide bombers. They were part of an ingenious plot, a monstrous conspiracy I am able only to begin to piece together.

  “An agent of the Department of Homeland Security, operating under orders from a superior whose name I have not yet been able to learn, called the Boston Police Department and requested that officers be sent to escort two passengers off the Regal. The Boston police officers did so, turning them over to federal operatives who said the men were being taken to a federal detention center.

  “The Regal sailed out of Boston harbor and began its fated voyage, stopping at ports along the eastern seaboard while a nuclear bomb was ticking away in her hold. As the ship sailed up the Savannah River, bound for the cruise-ship dock, she entered a part of the port operated by the U.S. Navy’s Military Sealift Command. Ships of that command use a special Savannah dock for loading vital supplies, including armored vehicles and helicopters, needed by our men and women in Afghanistan.

  “The bomb went off, not only destroying the Regal but also sinking two Sealift Command ships destined for the Pakistan port of Karachi, the starting point for deliveries to our bases in Afghanistan. Thus, a bomb set off in Savannah, Georgia, became not only a terrorist bomb but also a weapon against our forces in Afghanistan—and a warning that Iran can strike us anywhere, anytime.

  “More than two hundred passengers and crewmen died on the Regal, and thousands more were killed and maimed in Savannah. We mourn them all. But we will never know how many Americans and their allies were killed or wounded because they did not get the supplies destroyed in Savannah by agents showing the long arm of Iran.

  “Fellow Americans, what I have just told you was a secret. But I felt obliged to reveal not only this monstrous secret but the fact that it is all known to President Oxley.

  “Mr. Oxley knew about the bomb and the two Iranians. But he ordered the suppression of that information.

  “At first he concocted the tsunami lie.
Then, when the detection of nuclear-bomb radiation demolished the tsunami lie, he was forced to admit the existence of a nuclear bomb. But he declined to reveal the evidence showing that the detonation of the bomb was an act of war by Iran.”

  Those seated in the Senate let out a collective gasp. Pausing once more, Stanfield surveyed the chamber, raising his eyes and turning his head, as if to acknowledge the staffers in the galleries.

  Then he twice thumped the top of his desk, the sound echoing through the hushed chamber. “This did not have to happen, Mr. President!” he thundered.

  “This would not have happened had we had a man in the White House who deserved to be our commander-in-chief. Instead, we have what can only be called a commander-in-thief … a weak, incompetent pretender who has robbed us of our security, our lives, our future—”

  The phone on Falcone’s desk rang, shattering the silence like a fire bell. It was Ray Quinlan.

  “Sean, are you watching Stanfield? Can you believe this shit? We’re in DEFCON One and this motherfucker is attacking the President of the United States!”

  “Did you really expect anything else from him?” Falcone said, eyes still on the screen. “He’s clubbing the President like a baby seal.”

  “But that shit about the Iranians,” Quinlan asked. “Is any of that true?”

  “You see the PDBs. There’ve been plenty of rumors and false reports. But nothing like the Iranian stuff Stanfield is selling. We need to—”

  “Find out if it’s a fucking leak,” Quinlan screamed. “A fucking leak.”

  “Get back to Stanfield,” Falcone said. “He’s not through.”

  Falcone hung up and turned back to the screen.

  “Mr. President,” Stanfield continued, pausing to fold the sheets of paper and return them to the inner pocket of his suit coat. “It is clear from Mr. Oxley’s record—”

  Nice touch, Falcone whispered to himself. Oxley was no longer entitled to the title of President.

  “—It is a record that Mr. Oxley must stand on. Not with pride but with deep embarrassment and shame. He has allowed the brave men and women who defend our nation in battle to die at the hands of terrorists. The attack on the Elkton was a savage act of war. But what did our commander-in-chief do in response? He did not call for a vigorous military attack upon the nation that has sponsored so many acts of terrorism, the nation of Iran. No! He called for the creation of a congressional investigation!

  “Everyone could see what Mr. Oxley was doing. Pretending to be a statesman, cerebrally above it all, calling for patience, no rushing to judgment. Mr. President, it was a political ploy. A trick to delay the need for him to be held accountable for his failures.

  “And his failure to act only emboldened our enemies. They see his weakness. They can smell his timidity behind all of his rhetorical perfume. He is afraid to act, and because of his cowardice, thousands of our citizens are dead or dying … horribly.

  “Mr. President, the American people need not be stripped of our armor and be forced to stand naked before our enemies, waiting for another attack, another nuclear bomb while Mr. Oxley delays, defers, and scolds us not to take action before we know the facts.

  “We do know the facts. We know that Iran has secret nuclear weapons. We know Iran wants to destroy America and Israel, our only ally the Middle East. The Iranians have attacked us because we have a president who is a coward, who worries what the Chinese or the Russians—or what the United Nations—might say if we respond and defend our nation.

  “I could go on at length about what Mr. Oxley has allowed to happen to America during his term of office. But we need action and not speeches, virtute non verbis. Deeds not words.

  “Mr. President, I’m calling for the Senate and House leadership to convene a joint session of Congress, and that we—the Congress—do what Mr. Oxley refuses to do: pass a declaration of war against Iran. It is in our power to do so. The Constitution of the United States of America gives us that exclusive power.”

  Stanfield reached into his desk, took out a pocket copy of the Constitution, and held it aloft.

  “And if the President of the United States refuses to serve as our chief executive in our hour of need, he will be in violation of his oath of office to protect and defend us. He should be convicted of impeachable offenses, removed forcibly if need be from the White House, and punished for betraying our great nation.”

  The door to Falcone’s office flew open. Quinlan, red-faced, barged in cursing. “That son of a bitch. This is the worst shit I’ve ever seen in all of my years in this city. Sean, you need to get up to the Hill, Tell your old friends that Stanfield is insane. They can’t do this. Congress has never initiated a declaration of war. Never! They don’t have the power to—”

  “Ray, it doesn’t matter what’s happened in the past. I’m not sure our friends on the Hill won’t throw us under the bus. They’re all running scared. But even if they refuse to call a joint session, it doesn’t matter. Stanfield wins either way. If President Oxley doesn’t act, he’ll lose the election. He’ll be judged to have abdicated his obligation to defend America. If he does act … well, we may be starting a war against a country that had nothing to do with Savannah.”

  Quinlan stood next to Falcone’s desk and watched Stanfield continue. As if on cue—and Falcone later learned from Cunningham that the lofting of the Constitution had been a cue—a Senate page approached Stanfield’s desk and handed him a note. He reached into a side suit coat pocket, removed his black-rimmed glasses, put them on, and read the note.

  “My fellow Americans,” Stanfield said, holding the note in one hand, his glasses in the other. “I have just learned profound news.”

  He placed the note on his desk, the glasses in his pocket, and continued, “As I told you, I am not here as a presidential candidate but as a United States senator gravely concerned with the actions of Mr. Oxley. And my running mate, vice presidential candidate, the Honorable Greg Nolan, is also in Congress, today as a member of the House.

  “As I began this speech of revelation in this esteemed chamber, Representative Nolan was introducing a resolution of presidential impeachment onto the floor of the equally esteemed other chamber.

  “Representative Nolan’s previous impeachment resolutions have been bottled up in the House Judiciary Committee, which my opponent has controlled with a steely grip. But tonight, I have just learned, the Speaker of the House has allowed the impeachment resolution to reach the floor of the House for free and open debate.

  “In that debate, you, my fellow Americans, will learn of the lies and crimes of this president, and the process of impeachment will begin.

  “May God grant us the strength and wisdom to guide us through this dreadful, but vitally necessary, ordeal. And God bless—”

  “Jesus, Sean,” Quinlan said. “What happens next? What do we do?”

  “This whole fucking think stinks to high heaven, Ray,” Falcone said, his face flushed with rage. “Look at the goddamn timing. We’re about to talk about war with Iran with an impeachment hanging over the President.”

  “You’re right. I thought the same thing. What happens next in the impeachment? What can we do about that?”

  “Well, I assume Stanfield’s telling the truth about the resolution,” Falcone said, looking at the TV screen. “C-SPAN has switched over to the House. Looks like all hell broke loose.”

  “A steamroller!” Quinlan exclaimed. “How do we stop it?”

  “I have no idea. Stanfield has set it up so that the President either abdicates to Congress—and Congress takes us to war. Or, Congress decides on another path and allows impeachment to continue. To many a member, impeachment might look more attractive.

  “Look at the basics: If the House votes in favor of impeachment—it’s decided by a simple majority—the House will send the Articles of Impeachment to the Senate. The Senate will conduct a trial of the President to determine whether the President is guilty of the crimes charged in the Articles of Impeachm
ent. If two-thirds of the Senate votes to accept any Article of Impeachment, the President will be removed from office.”

  “So, Cunningham becomes president.”

  “Right. And it doesn’t stop there.”

  “Yeah. I can see what you mean. Cunningham would have to be a puppet or get impeached himself.”

  “By then, Ray, it may be worse. Much worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Cunningham were to be removed, the military might get spooked. The Joint Chiefs might start to question whether civilian authority can hold things together, particularly if another bomb goes off. The Chiefs may decide to get involved in the ‘continuity of government.’ Remember, that’s our current status.”

  “I am remembering,” Quinlan said, a hard tone creeping into the words. “Those presidential directives that we heard about. Oxley could … well, take over. Fuck impeachment. Fuck the election.”

  “Let’s not go there, Ray. See you at nine thirty.”

  46

  AT FORT Stewart, in the borrowed barracks that Rube Lanier had named Albuquerque South, he and the other three members of the NEST crew had set aside their hazmat suits and the tools they had used as nuclear responders. Now they were back to being scientists and putting their regular expertise to work.

  Lanier was a project director at the Albuquerque National Laboratory. His job was to put together and manage groups for specific tasks. He was doing that job now in Albuquerque South but with a new supervisor, Sean Falcone.

  Russ Belcher was a radiation-poisoning expert. Now he was at a long table on the second floor of the barracks. Army cots and footlockers had been piled against the walls to make room for the people and equipment of Albuquerque South. Already, data was flowing in from the detection instruments that team members wielded as they moved through the disaster area. Belcher and two other scientists were working at computers devoted to the work of the radiation-detection team.

  The Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory sent experts from the National Atmospheric Release Advisory Center. They created a three-dimensional map whose changing, pulsating colors showed the location and density of radioactivity and the plume of particles riding wind currents. Also fed into the map was regional weather data from the U.S. Air Force Global Weather Center and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.