Empire

them.”

“The question is, do I go public about the plans I submitted, so the FBI can start trying to trace the leak?”

“Love those headlines: ‘Presidential Assassination Planned in Pentagon,’ ” said Coleman.

“Or do I sit tight and let the Pentagon quietly set me up as the scapegoat?”

“Either way, your career is over,” said Coleman. “Sir.”

“You sure lucked out with this assignment,” said Reuben.

“Hell of a first day on the job, sir,” said Coleman.

Then it was time to stop pretending this wasn’t tearing them up.

“We’ve been under fire together,” said Reuben. “My friends call me Rube.” He knew that Coleman probably wouldn’t be able to bring himself to use the nickname. Not with a superior officer.

“My friends call me Cole.”

The lieutenant coughed. “Sirs, I’m being asked to bring you in for debriefing. I believe those are your bullets in the bodies down there, right?”

“Well, technically not our bullets,” said Reuben. “They were borrowed weapons.” He was still in the black humor of combat.

So was Cole. “We did aim the weapons from which they were fired, and we did pull the triggers.”

“Are they all dead?” asked Reuben. “We were under pressure and moving, and I’m afraid we probably shot to kill.”

“They were strung with grenades,” said the lieutenant. “They weren’t going to be taken alive.”

“Lucky thing we didn’t hit any of the grenades,” said Cole, “or there’d be no body left to identify.”

There was the unmistakable sound of several grenades going off in series down by the Tidal Pool.

“Bastards!” shouted the lieutenant.Then he ran down the hill toward the chaos of mangled bodies and screaming survivors.

“They booby-trapped themselves,” said Reuben, sick at heart. “Apparently killing the President wasn’t enough.”

“You didn’t plan all of this,” said Cole. “You couldn’t have planned for a White House insider.”

“But I did,” said Reuben. “I said they either had to have a devastatingly powerful weapon, or reliable intelligence—not only about whether the President was in residence, but also exactly where he was inside the building.”

“Yes, but putting that in the plan doesn’t give them the resources,” said Cole. “They can’t just magically say, Alakazam, and they’ve got a White House source.”

But there was a guy in the White House who knew all about Reuben and his projects. “I thought I was on two different assignments,” said Reuben. “One from my day job at the Pentagon, one from my White House guy.”

“Shit,” said Cole. “They were working you from both ends.”

Wreckage

If you wait to take action until you are certain of the enemy’s position, strength, and intentions, you will never act. Yet to act without knowledge is to plunge forward into a trap (if your enemy is aggressive) or waste your strength on meaningless maneuvers (if your enemy chooses to avoid you).

“While the lieutenant is busy, I have an errand to run,” said Major Malich. “You can come with me or not.”

“Do I get to know where?” asked Cole. And because he thought that made him sound like a little kid on a car trip, he added, “I promise not to ask if we’re there yet.” Then he winced. This wasn’t the time for attempts at ingratiating humor. He wished he knew Major Malich better. They’d just been in a firefight together, but Cole still had to worry about what impression he was making.

Malich turned away from him. “They’re going to want to debrief me. That will tie me up for about a week, and by that time, whoever’s trying to screw me will have me fully screwed. So I need to climb the screw and find out who’s driving it. Before I get locked in a room somewhere.”

Cole got it. “So let’s go.”

Cole dropped his borrowed weapon and Malich did likewise. They began jogging up the hill. When they neared the crest, they broke into a full run, though with Malich in a suit and Cole in uniform, they weren’t in the right clothes for running—especially the shoes.

Military and emergency vehicles crowded all the available streets around the White House, and survivors were gathering and being triaged and treated on the south lawn. But to get there, there was the little matter of a huge crowd of stunned tourists being held at bay by a cordon of soldiers, none of whom would have either the authority or the inclination to decide to let a couple of midlevel officers come prancing through.

Near the bottom of the hill, Malich veered left to angle toward Constitution Avenue, heading away from the mess just south of the White House grounds. Cole caught up with him and as they ran side by side, Malich explained. “If we go around by way of New York Avenue and State Place, we can try to get in at the southwest gate.”

As it was, they had to flash ID and do a little bullying even to get to the southwest gate, and when they got there the MPs on duty weren’t inclined to converse.

“Get the hell away from here, sirs,” they were told politely.

Major Malich took a step back and saluted. Confused, the MP saluted back.

“Soldier,” said Malich, “you’re doing your job. But my job is counterterrorism, and somewhere in that wreckage is the man to whom my information about the terrorists who did this must be reported. If he’s dead, I need to know that so I can take this information elsewhere. If he’s alive, then he needs to have it and he needs it now. And I can’t tell you that information, soldier, because I would then be court-martialed, which would be the end of a glorious career.” Then he smiled.

“Yeah, well what about my career if I get my ass kicked for letting you in after I was told nobody gets in?”

“But they didn’t mean it,” said Cole. “You know if one of the Joint Chiefs showed up he’d tell you to let him through the damn gate and you’d do it.”

The MP sighed. “I have a feeling this was only the first of many urgent stories I’m going to be told today.” But he let them through.

Which was when the real chaos began. The policy to admit no one was a good one, Cole saw at once. There were quite a few injuries, and even more weeping and hysteria and catatonia and pacing and panicky conversations and people just standing there clutching briefcases or stacks of file folders, and nobody seemed to be in charge.

“Maybe if you call his name,” suggested Cole.

“Not a chance,” said Malich.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“You’re kidding.”

“We didn’t meet here,” said Malich. “And he told me a name, but I have to assume that it wasn’t real.”

“Then how do you know he even worked here?”

“Because he arranged for me to meet the National Security Adviser at another location and the NSA confirmed that I was, indeed, working for someone who reported to the President.”

“Okay, that would be convincing enough for me,” said Cole.

“I’m not actually an idiot,” said Malich. “You have to go to a little trouble to get me dancing on the end of a