Dead or Alive

for the larger good of their country?

Time, McMullen decided, would be the judge of that.

The fact that Kilborn was giving Kealty this drawdown news rather than the chairman of the joint chiefs, Admiral Stephen Netters, told McMullen that the President had already made up his mind about the drawdown in Iraq. At last week’s Thursday meeting, Netters had argued against the ambitious pace of the withdrawal, citing the universally dismal reports on the ISF’s readiness from the Army’s brigade commanders. The ISF was certainly not ready now, and they certainly wouldn’t be ready in three months, when the first U.S. forces were scheduled for withdrawal.

For his part, Kealty had to get it done, McMullen knew, having centered much of his campaign on troop reduction. Whether Netters was right or not was irrelevant to Kealty, who ordered his Chief to get it done and make it work.

“There’s debate between brigade and division commanders about the readiness figures, but the data seem to support our plan. Four months isn’t much time, but the initial drawdown will be gradated over three months, so it’ll be a full seven months until the ISF will really start to feel any pressure.”

Crap, McMullen thought.

“Good, good,” Kealty said. “Ann, get the draft from Scott and run it through the NSC. If they don’t find any problems, we’ll move forward. Next, Scott.”

“Brazil. There are indications their expansion plan for their refinery infrastructure is more ambitious than we’d projected.”

“Which means?” Kealty asked.

Reynolds answered. “Their Tupi fields are richer than they either thought or were letting on.”

At least on the surface, the ever-growing scope of the Santos Basin’s potential had been as much a surprise to Brazil as it had been to the United States. There’d been not a whisper of it until Petrobras’s press release, and that was not the kind of news you could keep secret for long.

“Sons of bitches,” Kealty growled. Shortly after he won the general election and even before he had taken the oath, Kealty had ordered his presumptive Secretary of State to reach out to the Brazilian government. Along with getting the United States out of Iraq, a reduction in gas prices had been a cornerstone of Kealty’s campaign. The oil importation deal with Brazil, set to go into effect at the end of the month, would go a long way to fulfilling that promise. The downside was that the Brazilian government, friendly as it was now, had in its hands a lever of considerable strength. The question that no one seemed to be able to answer at this point was whether Brasilia would remain benevolent or go the way of Saudi Arabia-one hand outstretched in friendship, the other clutching a dagger.

“We don’t know one way or another whether there’s intent there, Mr. President,” McMullen said, trying to head Kealty off at the pass. “When their expansion plans changed or to what degree they will change is still a question mark.” McMullen looked hard at Kilborn, hoping he’d take the cue, which he did.

The DCI said, “That’s true, Mr. President.”

“Wes, when we’re done here, I want to talk to Ambassador Dewitt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What else?”

“Iran. We’re still working a few sources, but there are indications Tehran’s going to be ramping up its nuclear program again.”

Ah, shit, McMullen thought. Among Kealty’s many campaign promises had been to resume direct diplomacy with Iran. Bringing Iran into the wider community of nations and working on areas of mutual interest, Kealty had proclaimed, was the best way to convince Tehran to halt its nuclear ambitions. And until now, it seemed to have been working.

“Define ‘ramping up.’”

“Centrifuges, refinement plants, some back and forth with Moscow.”

“Sons of bitches. What in God’s name are they up to?” This question Kealty directed at his National Security Adviser.

“Hard to say, Mr. President,” Reynolds replied.

McMullen thought, Translation: I have no fucking idea.

“Then make it easy,” Kealty barked. “Get on the goddamned phone with State and get me some answers.” Kealty stood up, calling the meeting to an end. “That’s all. Wes, Scott, stay for a moment.”

Once Reynolds was gone, Kealty strolled to his desk and sat down with a sigh. “What do we know about this Ryan thing?”

“The Secret Service is still working the case,” DCI Kilborn replied. “But it looks like there was only one shooter-no ID on him yet, but dental work says he’s Jordanian. The gun came from a stolen shipment of Egyptian military sidearms-it matched two found after the Marseille bombing last month.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“Bus attack. Fourteen dead, including the shooters.”

“Suspected URC.”

“Yes, sir.”

McMullen knew his boss well enough to read the expression he now wore: In choosing Jack Ryan as a target, the URC had focused the media spotlight on the former President. Half of the cable networks were rerunning biography pieces on Ryan, who had so far been downplaying the incident, releasing a brief press statement and declining interview requests. For his part, Kealty had handled the incident with a prearranged questioning during a press conference: glad that former President Ryan was uninjured, etc. The words had come out sincerely enough, McMullen admitted, but he had no doubt they’d burned his boss’s throat during trainsit.

Kealty moved on: “Wes, this business with Netters…”

Uh-oh, McMullen thought. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“I think we’re nearing a time for a change.”

“I see.”

“You disagree?”

McMullen chose his words carefully. “I’d like to suggest, Mr. President, that a little dissent can be a healthy thing. Admiral Netters is plain-spoken, perhaps to a fault, but he’s widely respected, not only in the services but in Congress as well.”

“Christ, Wes, I’m not going to keep him on board just because he’s popular.”

“That’s not my point-”

“Then what is?”

“He’s respected because he knows his business. My dad used to say, ‘You don’t ask directions from somebody who hasn’t been where you’re going.’ Admiral Netters has been where we’re going.”

Kealty turned down his mouth, then flashed a smile. “That’s good, really good. Mind if I use it? Okay, we’ll see where it goes. I’m making this happen, though, Wes. We’re getting out of that damned country, one way or another. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You look like your dog just died, Scott. Let’s hear it.”

Kilborn laid a file folder on Kealty’s desk, then said, “Last week, a raid on a cave in the Hindu Kush mountains-a Ranger team looking for the Emir.”

“Ah, Jesus, that guy?” Kealty said, flipping through the file. “We’re still wasting resources on him?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Anyway, the team’s CO was injured, so his first sergeant took over-Driscoll, Sam Driscoll. Got to the cave, took out a couple guards, but when they went inside there was nothing.”

“No big surprise there.”

“No, sir, but if you’ll take a look at page four…”

Kealty did so, his eyes narrowing as he read.

Kilborn said, “As far as we can tell, none of them were armed, per se, but they were certainly sleeping.”

“And he just shot ’em all in the head,” Kealty grumbled, shoving the file aside. “It’s sickening.”

McMullen said, “Mr. President, I’m clearly a little behind here. What’re we talking about?”

“Murder, Wes, plain and simple. This sergeant, this Driscoll, murdered nine unarmed men. Period.”

“Sir, I don’t think-”