'Why, Mr. Martin?' Jack asked. The response was exactly what he expected.
'Because I swore an oath, Mr. President. That's why.'
'So did I, Mr. Martin.' And it wasn't to any goddamned game.
THE CUEING WAS somewhat equivocal. The Iraqi military used hundreds of radio frequencies, mainly FM VHP bands, and the traffic, while unusual for the overall situation, was routine in its content. There were thousands of messages, as many as fifty going at any given moment, and STORM TRACK didn't begin to have enough linguists to keep track of them all, though it had to do just that. The command circuits for senior officers were well known, but these were encrypted, meaning that computers in KKMC had to play with the signals in order to make sense of what sounded like static. Fortunately a number of defectors had come across with examples of the encryption hardware, and others trickled over various borders with daily keying sequences, all to be handsomely rewarded by the Saudis.
The use of radios was more now rather than less. The senior Iraqi officers were probably less concerned with electronic intercepts than with who might be listening in on a telephone line. That simple fact told the senior watch officers a lot, and a document was even now being prepared to go up the ladder to the DCI for delivery to the President.
STORM TRACK looked like most such stations. One huge antenna array, called an Elephant Cage for its circular configuration, both detected and localized signals, while other towering whip antennas handled other tasks. The listening station had been hastily built during the buildup for DESERT STORM as a means of gathering tactical intelligence for allied military units, then to be expanded for continuing interest in the region. The
Kuwaitis had funded the sister station, PALM BOWL, for which they were rewarded with a good deal of the 'take.' 'That's three,' a technician said at the latter station, reading off his screen. 'Three senior officers heading to the racetrack. A little early in the day to play the ponies, isn't it?'
'A meet?' his lieutenant asked. This was a military station, and the technician, a fifteen-year sergeant, knew quite a bit more about the job than his new boss. At least the elltee was smart enough to ask questions.
'Sure looks like it, ma'am.'
'Why there?'
'Middle of town, not in an official building. If you're out to meet your honey, you don't do it at home, do you?' The screen changed. 'Okay, we cracked another one. The Air Force chief is there, too—was, probably. Traffic analysis seems to show that the meet broke up an hour or so ago. I wish we could crack their crypto gear faster…'
'Content?'
'Just where to go and when, ma'am, nothing substantive, nothing about what they're meeting for.'
'When's the funeral, Sergeant?'
'Sunset.'
'YES?' RYAN LIFTED the phone. You could pretty much tell how important the call was from the line that was lit. This one was Signals.
'Major Canon, sir. We're getting feed from Saudi. The intel community is trying to make sense of it now. They told me to cue you on that.'
'Thank you.' Ryan replaced the phone. 'You know, it would be nice to have 'em come in one at a time. Something happening in Iraq, but they're not sure what yet,' he told his guests. 'I guess I have to start paying attention. Anything else I have to do now?'
'Put Secret Service protection on Vice President Kealty,' Martin suggested. 'He's entitled to it anyway under the law as a former VP—for six months?' the attorney asked Price.
'That's correct.'
Martin thought about that. 'Did you have any discussions on that issue?'
'No, sir.'
'Pity,' Martin thought.
14 BLOOD IN THE WATER
ED FOLEY'S aircraft was big and ugly, a Lockheed C-141B cargo carrier, known to the fighter community as a 'trash hauler,' in whose cargo area was a large trailer. The trailer's history was interesting. It had originally been built by the Airstream company as a receiving facility for the Apollo astronauts, though this one was a backup and had never actually been used for that purpose. It allowed senior officials to travel with homelike amenities and was used almost exclusively by senior intelligence officers. This way they could travel in both anonymity and comfort. There were lots of Air Force Starlifters, and from the outside Foley's looked like any other—big, green, and ugly.
It touched down at Andrews just before noon, after an exhausting flight of almost seven thousand miles, seventeen hours, and two aerial refuelings. Foley had traveled with a staff of three, two of them security and protection officers, called SPOs. The ability to shower had improved the attitude of each, and their night's sleep hadn't been interrupted by the signals that had started to arrive a few hours earlier. By the time the cargo lifter stopped rolling and the doors opened, he was refreshed and informed. That didn't happen often enough for the ADDO to regard it as anything short of a miracle. So much the better that his wife was there to greet him with a kiss. It was enough that the Air Force ground crew wondered what the hell this was all about. The flight crew was too tired to care.
'Hi, honey.'
'We really need to fly together this way once,' her husband observed with a twinkle in his eye. Then he shifted gears in a heartbeat. 'What's the word on Iraq?'
'Something's happening. At least nine, probably twenty or so senior officers got together for a quiet little meeting. We don't know what about, but it wasn't to pick the menu for the wake.' They got in the back of the car, and she handed over a folder. 'You're getting promoted, by the way.'
'What?' Ed's head came up from the document package.
'DCI. We're moving with Plan Blue, and Ryan wants you to front it for the Hill. I stay DDO, and I get to run my shop the way I want to, don't I, honey?' She smiled sweetly. Then she explained the other problem of the day.
CLARK HAD HIS own office at Langley, and his seniority guaranteed him a view of the parking lot and the trees beyond, which beat a windowless cubby. He even shared a pool secretary with four other senior field officers. In many ways Langley was alien country for him. His official job title was that of a training officer down at the Farm. He came to headquarters to deliver reports and get briefed in on new jobs, but he didn't like it here. There was a smell to any headquarters facility. The desk weenies wanted things their way. They didn't want irregularities. They didn't care to work overtime, and miss favorite TV shows as a result. They didn't much like surprises and data that made them rethink stuff. They were the bureaucratic tail in an intelligence agency, but at CIA the tail had become so massive that it wagged the dog without ever moving itself. The phenomenon wasn't exactly unusual, but when things went bad, his was the life at risk in the field, and if he were ever killed out there, he'd turn into one residual memo, to be quickly filed and forgotten by people who did National Intelligence Estimates based often as not on newspaper stories.
'Catch the news this morning, Mr. C.?' Chavez asked lightly on entering the room.
'I got in at five.' He held up a folder with PLAN BLUE printed on it. Because he so hated paperwork, when he did it he worked with supreme intensity, the more quickly to be rid of it.
'Then turn your set to CNN.' John did, expecting a news story that would surprise his Agency. And that's what he got, but not quite what he'd expected.
'LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, the President.'
He had to get out in public fast. Everyone agreed on that. Ryan walked into the press room, stood behind the podium, and looked down at his notes. It was easier than looking out at the room, smaller and shabbier than most parts of the building, built atop the former swimming pool. There were eight rows of six seats each. Every one, he'd seen on the way in, was full.
'Thank you for coming in so early,' Jack said in as relaxed a voice as he could manage.
