by Clancy, Tom
Molina informed him that the “scoop sloop” would be there within a quarter hour. That was the patrol boat with the nets and freezers required for evidence recovery. Graff acknowledged the update as he stood on the prow and continued to take pictures. He took each one twice, one through a night-vision lens and another with a flash. Comparing the two would help forensics experts construct a true-color image of the remains, something that would help them to pinpoint skin tone.
As they neared the hole in the vessel, Graff saw something that punched through the professional detachment. Something that put the nature of the vessel, if not the explosion, in context.
He saw a little bead bracelet floating on the choppy waters.
With a little girl’s hand still attached.
THREE
Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:33 A.M.
The call came as a surprise to Paul Hood. He was just sitting down with a cup of coffee and a power bar when his assistant put through Lorraine Sanders, chief of staff to President Dan Debenport. The forty-six-year-old director of Op-Center was being asked to breakfast in the Oval Office at the White House.
He ate the power bar anyway. The china at the White House was Jacksonian—old and delicate—and the less he used the happier he was.
This was obviously not a crisis. That was not something a new president discussed over bran muffins. Also, an official car usually arrived within moments of the call. It was also not a social visit, since those invitations typically came with more than ninety minutes’ advance notice. It was certainly not a get-to-know-you meeting, because Hood knew Debenport well. The senator had been chairman of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee, the group that controlled the budget of Op-Center. The fact that it was being held in the Oval Office indicated that it was to be a working breakfast. Moreover, the timing could hardly be coincidental. The White House knew what was happening this morning.
As an intelligence officer, Hood knew when he was in what analysts called “the twilight zone.” He had enough information to stay engaged but not enough to tell him why or with what. Op-Center’s FBI liaison once described it as working on a crossword puzzle where you have scattered answers but not enough connective tissue to help solve the damn thing.
Which is pretty much the state of American intelligence, Hood thought. Traditionally reactive, using the military fist to squash an enemy instead of surgical subterfuge to cut him out. Destroy the entire puzzle, and you don’t need to worry about this one across or that one down.
Maybe it was just as well Hood did not know what was going on. He would find out soon enough and, besides, he was too exhausted to think. Hood was not just sleepy but sapped of energy, of imagination. It had been a long and difficult nine months since an electromagnetic pulse explosion had all but destroyed the National Crisis Management Center. Hood and his staff had not only been working around the clock to repair the facility and protect national interests, they had been looking for ways to streamline and economize, to reinvent Op-Center in the wake of severe budget cuts.
Hood also had a personal mission. He needed to find a way to fall in love with his job again. Op-Center was not just a place but the beating heart of American crisis management. Hood had been present for its birth, when the mission was uncorrupted and clear, and opportunity was boundless. He was also there for death and loss in Korea, Russia, Spain. It was odd. Triumphs, of which there were many, were short-lived. That was what professionals were supposed to achieve. Failures, of which there were fewer, hit harder. These included the deaths in the disbanded military unit Striker and the assassination of political liaison Martha Mackall.
It also included the painful budget-induced firing of Hood’s number-two man, General Mike Rodgers, over a half year before.
Hood had done the best he could; he knew that. He had a shattered marriage to prove it. What he felt was that this place had somehow let him down. Like a child you love and raise and who falls short of what you expected or wanted or did not know you needed.
Hood had not seen the exhaustion coming. Rodgers had, though. Before he left, the general suggested Hood read about the British officers who had been hunting the German battleship Bismarck during the Second World War. Hood went on-line and found out why Rodgers had recommended it. In May 1941, when aerial reconnaissance informed the British commanders that the modern, fast, and very powerful vessel was in Grimstadfjord, Norway, they knew they could not afford to let it slip into the open sea. Despite the ultimate toll of hardware and manpower, the officers of the Royal Air Force Coastal Command and the Royal Navy threw every plane and ship they could muster at the Bismarck. They did not rest for the six days until it was sunk.
Those men knew the kinds of decisions, effort, loss, and attention that combined to flatten a man’s spirit. Rodgers had seen it coming better than Hood had, the work it would take to resuscitate Op-Center. The effort required to inspire the people doing two or three jobs instead of one, learning new equipment, being unable to turn to associates who were no longer there. But then, Mike Rodgers had been in bloody battlefield combat. He understood sudden, often debilitating loss. Hood had only been in politics, the kind of combat where injuries could be repaired or ignored.
Scholarship had been Rodgers’s way of putting the world in perspective, and it was valuable to Hood during the years they had been together. Op-Center’s intelligence chief Bob Herbert had a different way of seeing things. Herbert fired from the lip, which was hot-wired to the seat of his pants. Early in the rebuilding process, Herbert put Hood’s life and labors in sharp perspective as only the candid, politically insensitive Mississippian could.
“You know what a bombshell can do,” Herbert reminded him. “With just a look she can both fog your brain, clear your eyes, show you reality, and inspire a new one. But a bomb, Paul. That’s pure destruction. It will break your spirit and body and will resonate through your soul. You’ll hear the explosion and feel the shock wave every day for the rest of your life.”
Like Rodgers, Herbert knew what an explosion could do. The former CIA field operative had lost his wife and the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy blast of 1983. But Herbert was right about the damage the bombshell could cause as well, and there was a reason he made the comparison. Several years before, Hood happened to meet his former fiancée, Nancy Jo Bosworth, in Germany. The great love of his life had turned Hood’s head, literally, and when he looked back at his life, it was no longer the same, no longer comfortable or satisfying. It took a trauma—a United Nations hostage-taking involving his daughter Harleigh—and a few more years for his marriage to Sharon to end. Bitter though it was, at least there was time to adjust, to make the inevitable crash landing as gentle as possible.
The impact of the EMP was much different. It took everything from Op-Center in a flash. And the explosion didn’t just necessitate the long and difficult rebuilding of Op-Center. The power of the electromagnetic disturbance showed Hood and his colleagues how vulnerable modern technology was to a lone gunman with the proper tools. They realized how important it was to get all of American security resources up to speed to protect the nation. That weakness made the rebuilding process seem even slower.
Now Op-Center’s reconstruction was done, and however tired Hood felt, the real work was just beginning. Though he was eager to undertake it, he was also struggling to motivate himself for what was coming next, the Monday morning senior staff meeting. There was a curious and surprising conflict taking place in Hood’s head. The NCMC had done some significant work over the years, but that was in reaction to events, not prevention. Running Op-Center was like bailing a rowboat. Success still left them deep in cold water with the sea pouring in.
Hood was unreasonably, inexplicably angry at Op-Center for that. Nothing like this had happened when he was mayor of Los Angeles. He got frustrated, yes, with the city bureaucracy but never enraged. But then, his staff in city hall were mostly career politicians more dedicated to themselves, to advancement and power, than to t
heir responsibilities. The people of Op-Center were different. They had to be: they were ready to die for their work. It was as if their dedication, their sacrifice, had given this place sentience, a soul. A target for his frustration.
Op-Center was not supposed to get sick. The NCMC had been designed to be a constant in a world of changing dynamics and new challenges, with experts in every field and the technology to support their activities. Hood’s people were devoted, and they were the best, but they required a support structure. They rallied after the explosion, but they were not able to do their jobs effectively for over half a year.
Not that Hood had discussed this with them. It was all rah-rah as technical genius Matt Stoll supervised the electronic recovery and upgrades. There were heavy doses of can do as they borrowed intel and data from other agencies so they could watch national and international hot spots. But through it all Hood was crying inside. Staff psychologist Liz Gordon probably would have told Hood that he was having a serious bout of transference, laying what he felt about his failed marriage onto Op-Center. Sharon Hood had let him down, too, in his mind. She had failed to support his dedication to his career, his responsibility to the staff and the nation.
Maybe it was true that Hood was shifting his feelings from one situation to the other. It did not change the fact that Op-Center had taken on water, and the man in charge was angry and disappointed.
To make matters worse, the bailing pail was smaller now. Fewer hands, less money. All Hood had wanted to do this morning was get the place on its feet and running. Instead, he finished his coffee, told his assistant Bugs Benet where he was going, and headed toward the elevator.
Benet rose inside his cubicle. “Do you know when you’ll be returning?”
“I don’t,” Hood said. “Tell Ron to start the show without me.”
“Yes, sir. Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
Op-Center was housed in a two-story building at Andrews Air Force Base. During the Cold War, this nondescript, ivory-colored structure was a staging area for flight crews known as NuRRDs—nuclear rapid-response divisions. In the event of a nuclear attack on the nation’s capital, the job of the NuRRDs would have been to evacuate key officials to secret bunkers built deep in Maryland’s Blue Ridge Mountains. With the fall of the Soviet Union and the downsizing of the Air Force’s NuRRDs, evacuation operations were consolidated at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. The building at Andrews was given over to the newly chartered National Crisis Management Center.
The two floors of upstairs offices were for nonclassified operations such as finance, human resources, and monitoring the mainstream news services for possible hot buttons, seemingly innocent events that might trigger crises. These included the failure of Third World governments to pay their troops, accidents such as a submarine ramming a foreign fishing vessel or yacht—which might not be just a fishing vessel or pleasure cruise, but a spy ship—the seizure of large caches of drugs that could harm the black economy of local provinces, and other potential domino-effect activities.
The basement of the former NuRRD building had been entirely refurbished. It no longer housed living quarters for flight crews. It was where the tactical decisions and intelligence crunching of Op-Center took place. This executive level was accessible by a single elevator that was guarded on top twenty-four/seven.
Hood acknowledged the guard with a nod. The red-cheeked kids were rotated every week to keep any of them from being tempted by foreign agents looking for access. Ironically, it was an individual with seemingly perfectly legitimate credentials who had been able to deliver the EMP bomb. In an era when a smart teen with a computer could shut down power grids, phone systems, banks, and military installations, passwords and swipe cards seemed quaint relics of a very distant time.
Hood stepped into the parking lot. The day was warming quickly. It helped to invigorate him. Hood knew it was partly a radiant effect of all the asphalt on the base, but he let himself think it was the sun. And it was a glorious spring morning, one in which the scent of the flowers that lined the security fence was actually stronger than the smell of the jet fuel coming from the airstrips.
Hood hoped the day stayed warm and welcoming.
In Washington, the weather had a way of changing unexpectedly.
FOUR
Alexandria, Virginia Monday, 8:11 A.M.
Morgan Carrie always regarded her career as a classic good news–bad news situation.
One year before, at the age of fifty-three, Carrie was the first woman to earn the rank of three-star general in the United States military. It was a low-key promotion. The army wished to promote a woman without calling attention to it. As her husband, Georgetown University Hospital neurosurgeon Dr. T. H. Albert Carrie, put it, “They wanted to break the glass ceiling without the sound of shattering glass.” That was all right with the woman. Since she was a kid playing war games with her four older brothers—she was usually the nurse, only occasionally the French Resistance fighter Mademoiselle Marie—she wanted to be the officer she had become. She outranked two of her brothers, both of whom were in the Navy.
At the same time, the career intelligence officer was passed over to head the National Security Agency in the new president’s administration. Carrie had spent most of her career in Army General Staff, familiarly G2, the last five years as its head. Her office was concerned with all aspects of intelligence gathering, counterintelligence, and security operations. On paper she was more qualified than the man who got the job to oversee the organization that coordinates and executes the activities that protect American information systems and sources and generates foreign intel. But General Ted Dreiser was Air Force, and the new vice president, Bruce Perry, was former Air Force.
End of story.
Or so General Carrie had thought.
At eight P.M. the night before, the woman had received a call in her home in Alexandria, Virginia. She was being summoned to the White House for a short meeting with the president, the vice president, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Raleigh Carew. All she was told was that the president had a question for her.
A student of the history of American intelligence, Carrie knew that presidents rarely asked idle questions. At the very least, every query they made caused a snap-to ripple down the appropriate chain of command, just in case he decided to follow through. Sometimes, seemingly simple questions caused more dramatic responses. In 1885, President Grover Cleveland summoned Adjutant General R.C. Drum to the Executive Mansion to ask him a question about a foreign military installation. The officer was mortified to admit that he did not possess the information the president required, though he promised to get it. Drum did so and immediately organized the Military Information Division, which quickly grew from a single officer and four clerks to fifty-two officers, twelve clerks, and sixteen attachés. The MID collected data on geography and foreign armies and gave spying instructions to the attachés. The material the MID collected on military assets in Cuba, Mexico, and Samoa saved countless American lives during the Spanish-American War of 1898.
Carrie’s driver took her to the West Wing, where she met with the three men for a total of ten minutes. There was, as promised, just one question. The president gave her until this morning to answer it. The question was a little larger than she had anticipated, but General Carrie took some comfort from the fact that she had five hours more to answer it than Adjutant General Drum had.
General Carrie was up before her husband, who was himself an early riser. That was when the doctor usually read his medical journals, from about five A.M. to six-thirty. The sixty-year-old Johns Hopkins graduate believed that a doctor was like a general: having a lot of degrees, like having a lot of soldiers, wasn’t what made you effective. The trick was having the right ones, the best ones. Dr. Carrie was always on the lookout for those.
As requested, the general had responded to the president, in writing, by seven A.M. The letter was faxed to the White House and to the Pentagon. Original copies wou
ld be hand-delivered later in the day. For now, President Debenport had the answer he wanted. And General Carrie had a little more history in her dossier.
At seven-fifteen, Carrie received a call from the vice president’s chief of staff. A new driver, a civilian driver, would be coming to get her at seven forty-five. He would be carrying instructions in a sealed envelope. She would have two days to get her footing before meeting again with the president.
It was all very quick and definitely very gratifying. And through it all, as ever, her husband of thirty-eight years held her sure and steady, as he held a scalpel.
A nondescript navy blue sedan pulled into the driveway at exactly seven forty-five. The tall, lean neurosurgeon had delayed going to the hospital to hug his wife before she left. The woman, five foot seven and jogging-slender, pressed her head to his chest. He put a big hand around her short-cropped white hair. Morgan Carrie had earned a bronze star for her work with the 312th Evac unit in Chu Lai, Vietnam—where she met her husband—and later ran special intelligence ops behind enemy lines in the Persian Gulf. Yet when her husband held Carrie like this, she felt like an alabaster doll, fragile and fair, and not a commander of fighting men and women. Which was fine. When her husband sat on the sofa with her and watched Italian operas on DVD, he was not a confident surgeon but a teary schoolboy with trembling hands. Forget sex: this comfort level was really what marital intimacy was about.
The doctor gave his general a parting kiss on the forehead and wished her well. She grabbed her leather briefcase from its spot beside the door. There was nothing in it but pens and a notepad and the originals of her letter. She knew it would not be so empty when she came home. The general stepped into the bright morning. The driver was standing beside the car and opened the door. He introduced himself as Angel Jimenez and told her there was an iced tea in the cup holder in the backseat.
