everything matches up with the known facts. Either it's all the truth or it's the cleverest lie I've ever run into. You know what we have in the White House, John?'
'What's that?'
'An honest man. Not 'relatively honest, not 'hasn't been caught yet. Honest. I don't think he's ever done a crooked thing in his life.'
'He's still a babe in the woods,' Plumber replied. It was almost bluster, if not disbelief, because his conscience was starting to make noise.
'Maybe he is. But who ever said we were wolves? No, that's not right. We're supposed to chase after the crooks, but we've been doing it so long and so well that we forgot that there are some people in government who aren't.' He looked over at his colleague again. 'And so then we play one off against another to get our stories—and along the way we got corrupted, too. What do we do about that, John?'
'I know what you're asking. The answer is no.'
'In an age of relative values, nice to find an absolute, Mr. Plumber. Even if it is the wrong one,' Holtzman added, getting the reaction he'd hoped for.
'Bob, you're good. Very good, in fact, but you can't roll me, okay?' The commentator managed a smile, though. It was an expert attempt, and he had to admire that. Holtzman was a throwback to the days Plumber remembered so fondly.
'What if I can prove I'm right?'
'Then why didn't you write the story?' Plumber demanded. No real reporter could turn away from this one.
'I didn't print it. I never said I didn't write it,' Bob corrected his friend.
'Your editor would fire you for—'
'So? Aren't there things you never did, even after you had everything you needed?'
Plumber dodged that one: 'You talked about proof.'
'Thirty minutes away. But this story can't ever get out.'
'How can I trust you on that?'
'How can I trust you, John? What do we put first? Getting the story out, right? What about the country, what about the people? Where does professional responsibility end and public responsibility begin? I didn't run this one because a family lost a father. He left a pregnant wife behind. The government couldn't acknowledge what happened, and so Jack Ryan stepped in himself to make things right. He did it with his own money. He never expected people to find out. So what was I supposed to do? Expose the family? For what, John? To break a story that hurts the country—no, that hurts one family that doesn't need any more hurt. It could jeopardize the kids' educations. There's plenty of news we can cover without that. But I'm telling you this, John: You've hurt an innocent man, and your friend with the big smile lied to the public to do it. We're supposed to care about that.'
'So why don't you write that?'
Holtzman made him wait a few seconds for the answer. 'I'm willing to give you the chance to set things right. That's why. You were there, too. But I have to have your word, John. I'll take yours.'
There was more to it than that. There had to be. For Plumber, it was a matter of two professional insults. First, that he'd been steamrolled by his younger associate at NEC, one of the new generation who thought journalism was how you looked in front of a camera. Second, that he'd also been rolled by Ed Kealty—used… to hurt an innocent man? If nothing else, he had to find out. He had to, otherwise he'd be spending a lot of time looking in mirrors.
The TV commentator took Holtzman's mini-tape recorder from his hand and punched the record button.
'This is John Plumber, it's Saturday, seven-fifty in the morning, and we're standing across the street from the Giant Steps Day Care Center. Robert Holtzman and I are about to leave this location to go somewhere. I have given my word that what we are about to investigate will remain absolutely confidential between us. This tape recording is a permanent record of that promise on my part. John Plumber,' he concluded, 'NBC News.' He clicked it off, then clicked it back on again. 'However, if Bob has misrepresented himself to me, all bets are off.'
'That's fair,' Holtzman agreed, removing the tape cassette from the recorder and pocketing it. The promise had no legal standing at all. Even if it had been a contractual agreement, the First Amendment would probably negate it, but it was a man's word, and both of the reporters knew that something had to hold up, even in the modern age. On the way to Bob's car, Plumber grabbed his field producer.
'We'll be back in an hour or so.'
THE PREDATOR WAS circling at just under ten thousand feet. For purposes of convenience, the three UIR army corps were identified as I, II, and III by the intelligence officers at STORM TRACK and PALM BOWL. The UAV was circling I Corps now, a reconstituted Iraqi Republican Guard armored division and a similar division from the former Iranian army, 'The Immortals,' it was called, harkening back to the personal guard of Xerxes. The deployment was conventional. The regimental formations were in the classic two-up/one-back disposition, a triangle of sorts, with the third forming the divisional reserve. The two divisions were abreast. Their frontage was surprisingly narrow, however, with each division covering a mere thirty kilometers of linear space, and only a five- kilometer gap between the two.
They were training hard. Every few kilometers were targets, plywood cutouts of tanks. When they came into view, they were shot at. The Predator couldn't tell how good the gunnery was, though most of the targets were knocked over by the time the first echelon of fighting vehicles passed. The vehicles were mainly of Russian/Soviet origin. The heavy ones were T-72 and T-80 main battle tanks made at the huge Chelyabinsk works. The infantry vehicles were BMPs. The tactics were Soviet, too. That was evident from the way they moved. Sub-units were kept under tight control. The huge formations moved with geometric precision, like harvesting machines in a Kansas wheatfield, sweeping across the terrain in regular lines.
'Geez, I've seen the movie,' the chief master sergeant observed at the Kuwaiti ELINT station.
'Yes?' Major Sabah asked.
'The Russians—well, the Soviets, used to make movies of this, sir.'
'How would you compare the two?' And that, the NCO intelligence-specialist thought, was a pretty good question.
'Not much different, Major.' He pointed to the lower half of the screen. 'See here? The company commander has everything on line, proper distance and interval. Before, the Predator was over the division reconnaissance screen, and that was right out of the book, too. Have you read up on Soviet tactics, Major Sabah?'
'Only as the Iraqis implemented them,' the Kuwaiti officer admitted.
'Well, it's pretty close. You hit hard and fast, just go right through your enemy, don't give him a chance to react. You keep your own people under control. It's all mathematics to them.'
'And the level of their training?'
'Not bad, sir.'
'ELLIOT HAD SURVEILLANCE on Ryan, right over there,' Holtzman pointed as he brought the car intp the 7- Eleven.
'She was having him followed?'
'Liz hated his guts. I never—well, okay, I did figure it out. It was personal. She really had it in for Ryan, something that happened before Bob Fowler got elected. Enough that she leaked a story that was supposed to hurt his family. Nice, eh?'
Plumber wasn't all that impressed. 'That's Washington.'
'True, but what about using official government assets for a personal vendetta? That may be real Washington, too, but it's against the law.' He switched off the car and motioned for Plumber to get out.
Inside they found a diminutive owner, female, and a bunch of Amerasian kids stocking the shelves on this Saturday morning.
'Hello,' Carol Zimmer said. She recognized Holtzman from previous visits to buy bread and milk—and to eyeball the establishment. She had no idea he was a reporter. But she did recognize John Plumber. She pointed. 'You on TV!'
'Yes, I am,' the commentator admitted with a smile.
The eldest son—his name tag said Laurence—came up with a less friendly look on his face. 'Can I help you with something, sir?' His voice was unaccented, his eyes bright and suspicious.
'I'd like to talk to you, if I might,' Plumber asked politely.
