“I have a list of targets. And contingency plans. All worked out, Dad. Just waiting for the word.”
And if anything, that was only the tip of the iceberg of things that disturbed Abraham about Jackson. His son was a violent man, seeming to take pleasure in the physical confrontations involved. But he was a thoughtful violent man, if such a thing existed. He sought out opportunities for violence and planned methodically and carefully for larger-scale operations. The one characteristic in all of his plans was that they were calculated to wreak maximum devastation among a civilian population.
Jackson’s cold eyes stayed locked on his father. “You know we can — I can — get away with it.”
Abraham forced a commanding note into his voice. “You wait for orders. That clear?”
Jackson nodded. But as his enigmatic son turned his gaze back to the television, Abraham knew a moment of despair.
TEN
Smith, Williams discovered, was a woman of meticulous habits. Indeed, everything about her was meticulous — her uniform, her hair, and even the way she ate. He felt like a big, bumbling oaf next to her, his own massive hands clumsy as he watched her delicate ones pick a few remaining grapes out of her fruit salad. Even her daily routine on board the ship was orderly. When he’d found out that she always ate lunch late, he made a point of being there just a few minutes before her whenever he could. At first, he tried to tell himself that she would just think he was as well organized as she was, but he soon realized that she was on to him.
Not that she seemed to mind. The experience they had in common of being on different ends of the fire had formed a bond between them. More and more, he found himself admiring her for how she’d reacted, what she had done, and the determination she brought to her new duties inside the engineering department. Not that he understood everything she talked about. A lot of the mechanical stuff was over his head. Still, she seemed to enjoy explaining the intricacies of pumps and engines to him, and never made him feel stupid.
For his own part, he found she knew surprisingly little about aircraft, and he was delighted to share his passion for aviation and his growing technical expertise with her. She never seemed to be bored, although he could tell she failed to understand his fascination with flying.
“Maybe someday I’ll go to OCS and be a pilot,” he said, watching her as he did so. “Wouldn’t that be something?” It was a dream he often entertained, but had not shared with anyone. Aspiring to being an officer was like being the smart kid in high school — you took too much flack from everyone. The fact that he even cared what other people said about him bothered him. He had a feeling it would never bother her.
“I’ve thought the same thing,” she said, precisely spearing a grape in the middle. “Not flying, of course.” A dreamy look stole over her face. “I want to be like Captain Bethlehem over on
“Captain Bethlehem is an aviator,” he pointed out. “You have to be to command an aircraft carrier.”
Her eyes widened slightly at that, and he realized she had not known it. “A destroyer, then,” she said calmly. “A ship — I don’t care what kind. Any kind.”
“The other ships are just our escorts.”
She glared at him. “Escorts that the carrier can’t be deployed without. Besides, I think it’d be neat, being on a smaller ship. In here, you might as well be working in an office building. I still get lost when I have to go somewhere new.”
“I know what you mean.” They chowed down in silence for several minutes. Williams went over his plan again. “Hey, are you going to the movie tonight?” he asked, his voice determinedly casual.
“Maybe. What is it? One of those slasher films again?”
“No.
“Oh, me, too! I love that movie.” A smile spread across her face, then turned into a frown. “Except I have a mid-watch. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be dragging.”
“You can sleep when you’re dead,” he said, repeating what a chief had told him a few weeks ago when he yawned in his presence. That startled her, and he continued. “Meet me down here at nineteen hundred. I’ll even buy you a Coke. And we could get some popcorn out of the vending machine.”
She stared him for a moment, an odd expression on her face. “You wouldn’t be asking me out on a date, would you? Because you know that’s not allowed on the ship.”
He flushed. “No, of course not. We’re friends, right?”
She didn’t answer, just continued to stare at him. Finally, when he was starting to feel like a complete idiot, she said, “Sure. Only make it a little before seven, OK? I hate to stand in line.”
The two Magruders waited in an office down the hallway from the Oval Office. Even though they’d both been here countless times, Tombstone always felt a stunning sense of humility at being summoned by the President. No matter that some individuals who had inhabited the historic building had shown themselves to be unworthy of the highest office in the land. No matter that party politics was never far from anyone’s mind. This was still the White House, the embodiment of every dream and vision of America, the seat of power in the most powerful nation in the world. To be a part of those decisions, to walk these halls and advise the President, remained a rare honor for both of them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the Chief of Staff said as he stepped into the office. “The President would like to see you now.” No apology for the two-hour wait was tendered and none was expected. The Magruders stood and followed him down the hall. Ahead of them, they saw a lean figure hurrying away. “Senator Hamlin,” the COS confided. “The President will explain.”
The President stood and walked around the desk to meet them in the middle of the room. “Thank you for coming.” He motioned them to a comfortable seating arrangement away from the desk. A steward silently set a tray of coffee before them, then left, closing the door behind him. The Secret Service agents seemed to fade into the background.
“I have a serious problem,” the President began, “one I hope you can help me solve.” He outlined the events in Bull Run, pain in his voice as he mentioned the Smart children. “It’s a major tragedy, one that should never have happened.” The Magruders, still absorbing the details, murmured their agreements.
“My problem,” the President continued, “is that I’m not sure what went wrong. You’d think after the intelligence fiasco surrounding 9/11, we’d have sorted the information flow out. Homeland Security Defense was supposed to have been the answer, but I don’t think it’s working. Not yet, anyway. The CIA and the FBI…” He paused, studying their faces for a moment, then nodded, evidently pleased by what he saw there. “No. I don’t have to tell you about intelligence and territoriality, do I? Neither of those esteemed agencies has particularly liked joining a new team. I won’t say that they’re being actively obstructive — I’d have their asses if I could prove it — but I do think that’s part of the problem. Selective intelligence sharing — and it’s not working.”
“Fire both agency heads and start over,” the senior Magruder said bluntly.
“I wish it were that easy. But then I’m left with new leadership awaiting Senate confirmation, and I can’t have that right now.”
“Why not now?” Tombstone asked.
“The militias,” the President answered. “Something like this happens and they go on full alert. We show any weakness right now and we’re inviting another Wounded Knee or Waco.”
“Do you have any evidence that they’re planning something?”
“Enough to worry me,” the President answered. “Which brings me to the point. In the long run, HSD is going to be the answer. Jeremiah Horton is a decent fellow — he’ll do the right thing. But something like this, integrating forces that aren’t used to working together — well, frankly, the military has more experience at it than the civilian agencies do. That’s where you come in.”
