“Please, gentlemen, be seated,” the president said. “May I join you for a few moments, Mr. Secretary?”
“Certainly, Mr. President. Sit right here,” Austin said, drawing up one of the second-row chairs next to his. “We were just beginning to formulate our thoughts.”
“That’s what I came about, actually,” the president said, taking his seat. “I’ve just spoken to British Prime Minister Winters. They’ve had eleven shooting incidents with fourteen people dead. Yesterday evening, I spoke with Australian Prime Minister Hunter from Canberra. Seventeen Australian sailors died on the Defiance and two on the rescue ship. Seven people were shot in the melee at Surfer’s Paradise. Five have since died.” The president looked around the table briefly, his gaze stopping on McIntyre. “I presume that you are Brigadier Colin McIntyre.”
“I am, sir.”
“Good. Glad to see you here. General Austin, if you have no objections, Prime Minister Winters has asked if we could include Brigadier McIntyre in the Trojan strategy meetings. He has asked our military attache in London to participate with his response team.”
“I would be pleased to have the brigadier’s expertise on our side, Mr. President. Consider it done.”
“Good,” the president said. “Now, just before coming over here, I signed a presidential order designating this situation as ‘Troy,’ authorizing full authority to Trojan to call upon any and all assets necessary to counter this new form of attack. General, while there is still some coordination to arrange with governors and, in some cases, mayors, those assets will include local law enforcement as well as military. Full federal funding for local law enforcement will stand behind that directive. I’ll deal with Congress later. We’re not yet considering declaring martial law, but the idea has been raised by several senators. Congressional leaders are meeting tonight to discuss emergency measures to remove all restrictions from the Patriot Act and to grant far broader discretion to law enforcement and the military. Since we’re dealing with a domestic issue, that expansion of the Patriot Act will open a whole new debate among the liberally minded. You and General Connor will have a copy of my memorandum within the hour. The JCS and the secretary of defense will receive copies this evening as well. I know you’re only just starting your meeting, but are there any initial thoughts or response to today’s attacks?”
“We’re not surprised, Mr. President, only perplexed at the moment as to how to best counter an unidentified, widely dispersed enemy who can freely choose his place and time of attack. General Connor was just about to assume the role of a terrorist and take us through operational planning as if he were the group leader.”
The president tilted his head and smiled grimly. “I hope for our team’s sake, General, that you will remain on our side in this fight.”
Pug smiled briefly. “They have to obtain communication from somewhere, Mr. President,” he said. “Perhaps we can think of a way to get inside that communication network, maybe even identify at least when, if not where, they’ll strike next.”
“That may be, General Connor, but we can’t discount that they may already know what they’re supposed to do, that they don’t need constant direction. For all of their technical know-how, we’re still dealing with a medieval mentality. In those days, the warriors were just told to go and kill, with overall objectives established and plenty of discretion for the field commanders. Well,” the president said, rising, “I won’t keep you from your meeting.” The officers around the room also stood. President Snow paused as he headed for the doorway.
“Thank you, Brigadier, for working with us on this problem. My condolences for the losses your British citizens have suffered today. As usual in times of crises, the British and American people are hand-in-hand against an enemy. Mr. Secretary, please assure that I’m briefed on what actions General Connor’s team determines to implement?”
“Certainly, Mr. President. Thank you for meeting with us this evening.”
When the president left, Secretary Austin picked up where he had left off, once more asking about communication between the terrorists. “A 21 ^st century dead-drop, you said, General?”
Pug did not respond, and for several seconds silence filled the room.
“General Connor, ” General Austin said, his voice more emphatic. “Your thoughts, please?”
“Sorry, Mr. Secretary, I was, uh… I-”
“You were drifting, General. Get focused. Communication. That’s the subject. Stay on topic.”
“Yes, sir. My apology. It was something the president said that got me thinking,” Pug said, pausing for a long moment. “General, they may not need any communication.”
“What? How could they operate such a widespread, coordinated attack without communication?”
“Consider this, sir. They’re all suicide bombers, in a sense. They may have received a very simple instruction before they left wherever they came from. Go kill Americans until you’re captured or killed.”
“No, the opening attacks were too well-planned. All sports arenas, all baseball games.”
“Understood, sir, but they may already have several predetermined places, times, and dates for coordinated attacks for maximum impact, the rest to be selected at random. They may also have a website where they can check in occasionally to receive a change of orders. Mr. Secretary, it doesn’t matter if they shoot two people in Chicago or Atlanta, Modesto, California, or Ashland, Oregon. Public fear of the unknown is their greatest weapon. At first, everyone will think it will happen somewhere else. Sort of like the random freeway shootings in Los Angeles a few years ago. But if shootings occur in small town America, in our backyard, so to speak, as well as the larger cities, all our citizens will be terrified.”
“You don’t paint a very bright picture, General,” Brigadier McIntyre said.
“No, sir, I don’t. But it’s only one thought. And I am the enemy commander.”
“It’s not a pleasant thought, Pug, not pleasant at all,” Secretary Austin added. “But you’re still the terrorist commander for the evening. Let’s brainstorm around the table for a few moments, based on your idea that these individual terrorist cells may act as free agents. Any reasoned idea, or unreasoned for that matter, should be entertained. Captain Prince, your thoughts, please.”
Chapter 18
Forest Road # 245
North of Missoula, Montana
April
Dressed in camouflage BDU’s, a thick, silvery beard covering the lower half of his face, Thorton Campbell, known to his associates as Thor, sat quietly at the head of the rough wooden table. Two men sat on his right and one on his left while a large group of men filed into the room. Fifty-five years old, with piercing blue eyes, closely cropped gray hair and a steely gaze that covered the room in a slow, calculated sweep, all that was lacking to fulfill the image of a highland warrior was a crested shield, a breastplate of stiffened leather, and a green, black, and blue tartan kilt.
Six generations after the original Scottish immigrant, Angus Campbell, had cleared a hundred and sixty acres, Thor had abandoned the original Campbell family farm in Minnesota. Five years earlier, when Thor had retired from the Army after twenty-eight years of service and two major wars, Vietnam and Gulf I, he had settled in northern Montana.
Always aware he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer like his ancestors, the former Army Ranger had graduated from the Virginia Military Institute, entered active duty, and had retired as a lieutenant colonel. Two negative efficiency reports and a formal charge of negligence had stopped his rise to full colonel. In 2004, twice-divorced and uncertain of what to do after the Army, he had purchased a fishing and hunting supply store about ten miles north of Missoula and quickly found common ground with the local militia unit, becoming their small-arms instructor. Elevation to command of the platoon-sized membership came quickly by virtue of his natural leadership skills and the fact that he was the only one among the group who had held a valid military commission. No one else in the unit had more than eight years’ enlisted service, two of those becoming NCO’s. Only two had seen combat, and about half had never served on active duty beyond the initial stint in boot camp. The Blackfoot Brigade, about forty- two strong at its core, with additional members in various levels of activity, ranged in age from seventeen to sixty- eight. Campbell had invited only three of his command staff to attend this gathering, including both of the combat veterans who now served as unit NCO’s.
All in all, during the past two days, about eighty staff officers had arrived from over a dozen militia units, settling into the stark accommodations at Camp Brockton, so named after a popular local youth who had excelled at
