Terror At Dawn

FOURTEEN

Couer D’alane, Idaho

Saturday, September 15

0800 local (GMT -7)

Tombstone Magruder surveyed the assembled crowd, matching the names he’d read in the briefing folder with faces. The crowd was broken into several small groups, each studiously ignoring the other. Clearly, the different law-enforcement agencies were not used to working with each other, or at least not as comfortable with it as the U.S. and the Canadian military personnel were. The military people mingled easily, exchanging stories of the last time they’d met and catching up on each others’ careers.

Funny that folks from two different nations had more in common than the FBI and the CIA.

Or, at least the FBI and CIA want me to think that. The thought would bear exploring at a later date.

Finally, when he judged the time was right, Tombstone stepped up to the podium. Everyone immediately fell silent, the casual conversations mere gambits to cover for the fact that they were waiting for him to speak.

“Thank you all for getting here on such short notice,” Tombstone began. “I’m Thomas Magruder, formerly of the United States Navy. This is my uncle, Matthew Magruder.” He gestured to his right, where his uncle was standing slightly behind him.

“Tombstone,” one voice in the back called out, amused. “You still going by that?”

Tombstone smiled. “I suppose. I’ll probably answer to it, anyway. OK, so now you know who I am. I know your names, but I haven’t got those matched up with faces yet.” I do, but no point in letting you all know that, not if you’re so intent on pretending you don’t know each other. He pointed to the right front corner of the group. “Start here, senior person introduce your people.”

A bluff, rough-featured man stepped forward. He was wearing a sports jacket but looked uneasy in it. “Hank Greenfield, FBI.” He introduced the man and woman with him, adding, “For what it’s worth, we’re familiar with the area. I was on site when the Smart incident went down.”

Like they don’t all know that already. But I like your style, putting it right out there on the table, no excuses. Tombstone studied him for a moment, taking his measure. A no-nonsense sort of guy. I’ll have a hell of a time getting paperwork out of him, but he’ll be the top guy out in the field. I wonder just how much of that fiasco was actually your fault. Not as much as your people are laying on you, I bet.

A man from the center of the group behind Greenfield stepped forward, a pleasant expression on his face. Instead of a sports coat, he wore a dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. It looks completely natural on him, clearly tailored specifically to suit his athletic form. “A. J. Bratton, CIA. Delighted to be on board, Admiral. Although, of course, we’re just here in an advisory capacity.”

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind. And you might keep in mind that I’m not an admiral anymore — or at least, I’m just a retired one.”

Bratton bristled slightly. “Of course. Our intelligence resources are at your disposal. Perhaps we can fill in some of the gaps in the database.”

I’m sure.” Out of the corner of his eye, Tombstone saw Greenfield turn to glare at the CIA officer. Clearly the two knew each other, and clearly there was no love lost between them. Whether that was a matter of personal taste or an outgrowth of the long-standing rivalry between the CIA and the FBI, he didn’t know yet. But, as closely as they would be working together, he was sure he would have an opportunity to find out.

“Captain Adam Sands,” the Canadian officer in working uniform said, stepping forward. “I brought a couple of officers from my staff, the ones most used to working with you chaps. At least, they claim they can understand every accent in America.” That produced a chuckle from the crowd. “Happy to be working with you again, Tombstone,” the Canadian continued, using Tombstone’s old nickname easily.

“And with you, too.” From what Tombstone could remember, Sands was one tough cookie, sharp and driven. Tombstone particularly remembered his ability to remain completely unflustered no matter what the circumstances. There was more than a small trace of British reserve in the man, and Tombstone was glad to have him on the team.

The next man to stand up was a civilian. “Captain Bill Lawyers. I’m with the sheriff’s department, and we cover this area along with the area you’re concerned about. We’re used to working with the other jurisdictions in the state, as well as with the Indian tribal authorities. There are a couple of hoops you have to jump through on tribal grounds, but for the most part they’re pretty savvy. We can coordinate anything that needs to happen on federal lands. I’ve brought along Jim Horse Looking, from the Tribal Police.”

“Welcome,” Tombstone said. “Mr. Horse Looking, I wasn’t expecting you, but it’s good to have you on board.” Something about the man’s bearing made him examine the Indian more closely. “Former Marine?”

“Yes, sir. It still shows, does it?” The Indian’s voice was low and quiet, almost diffident.

Tombstone nodded. “Yes, sir, it does.”

There were a few other agencies present, including an attorney from the U.S. Attorney’s office, a local district attorney, and a public information specialist from the FBI who promised to coordinate all interaction with the media the minute they started showing up.

After all the introductions were completed, Tombstone said, “Well, ladies and gentlemen. I suggest we start setting up and staffing our organization, keeping in mind that we need to be able to draw from all of the resources we have. For the CIA folks, I expect you to let us know when we are assigning you to something that might not be entirely appropriate. We’ll keep you on the sidelines, in support roles, so keep us honest.”

Bratton waved his hand lazily, acknowledging the order. “Not to worry, Admiral. We know what we’re here for.”

Tombstone studied for him for a moment, nonplussed. The CIA had never been his favorite of government agencies, having a tendency to secrecy and circuitous thinking that too often got men on the front lines killed. Now, operating with them in a joint task force, he was not entirely sure that he trusted them.

“What’s your next mission?” Bratton asked.

Your. Not our. Whether he meant to or not, he’s confirming my suspicions about the CIA’s commitment to this project.

“We don’t know yet,” Tombstone said offhandedly, being careful not to let his face reflects his thoughts. Tombstone took his nickname from the impassive expression normally on his face.

“Then why are we all here?” Bratton said easily, indicating that he thought it was a waste of time until there was an actual mission.

“Best to iron things out before we have a specific mission,” Greenfield observed gruffly. “Once the shooting starts, there’s no time for chain-of-command concerns.” He shot Tombstone a dark look. “Speaking of chain of command — what is it?”

And there it was, right out on the table. No need to wonder where Greenfield stood on any issue. Tombstone found his admiration for the man deepening.

“Yes, do tell,” Bratton said. The local man from the sheriff’s department and the tribal police officer shared a dark look in the back.

“That’s one of the concerns,” Tombstone admitted.

“Posse commitatus,” Greenfield said.

“Exactly. For right now, we’re operating under the exception that allows military forces to coordinate training exercises and participate in dual disaster-relief exercises.” Tombstone saw the cynical look on Greenfield’s face and nodded. “I know. Exactly my position as well. But my information is that we’re going to see some more direct guidance coming down from the White House in the next couple of days. It’ll be his call as to how the chain of command works.”

“His call as Commander in Chief? Or as Chief Executive?” Greenfield asked.

“Or as head of a sovereign nation?” Horse Looking paused, making his point clear. “If they cross into