“Will your nation require a formal declaration of war?” Bratton asked in a mocking tone of voice. “Surely you’re not going to confuse the issue further with this sort of nonsense.”
“If you plan on simply invading as your people did originally, perhaps we should. CIA, FBI — you are so fond of initials. We will not have the issue of Indian sovereignty simply treated as dispensable when you find it convenient.”
“As soon as
“Gentlemen!” Tombstone snapped, cutting them off. “Enough of that. Officer Horse Looking, you have a point. I will depend on you to alert me to any potential issues. For the rest of you, as soon as I get any word, I’ll pass it on. For now, since we do have authorization to conduct training exercises, we will stay off Indian lands. As far as our approach, I want to run this as if it was a military operation, but it’s strictly a civilian one.”
“But you’re not military,” Bratton observed. “And that makes it a bit awkward, doesn’t it?”
“I am retired, as is my uncle,” Tombstone acknowledged. “But we’re both members of the Fleet Reserve, and there is at least an argument that we would still be considered military forces. Right now, though, we’re here as representatives of Advanced Analysis to coordinate operations.”
“I’d like to see the precedent for that,” Greenfield said.
“There is none that I can think of, except perhaps in contracting federal prison security to outside organizations. But,” Tombstone continued, “there’s not much precedent for what were facing now, is there?”
That brought a hush to the room. None of them would ever forget where they had been on that day in September when cowardly terrorism had sent aircraft crashing into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.
“So,” Tombstone continued after a moment, “I’d ask you to cut me a little slack on the question of chain of command. For now, you can consider me the team leader, or officer in charge, or commanding officer, or whatever term you used to describe the person in charge. It may be that the President will decide that the FBI is better suited to control the operation.”
“Not likely,” someone said quietly in the back of the room. Greenfield’s face turned red, but he had no comment.
Tombstone debated on whether or not to let the comment pass, then decided to tackle the issue head-on. “The first thing I’ll require here is that you all put aside any previous interagency rivalries. We all know what happened at Bull Run, and I see no point in harping on it other than to review any operational lessons we may glean from it. It did not go well — understatement, right? Haven’t all of you had an operation turned into a real clusterfuck right under your noses? I know I have.”
“Yeah.” Greenfield was staring off in the distance somewhere, as though he was seeing Bull Run go down again. “And thanks for the sensitivity training, but I’d bet my ass that there’s not a man in here who could say anything worse than what I’ve said to myself.”
“Well, then.” Tombstone turned back to the rest of the room. “We’ll make up the following departments, I think. Administration, operations, intelligence, and logistics. If we need any other departments, we’ll put them together as required. For now that ought to get us started.”
“Any word on the first target?” Bratton asked again.
“No. Like I said, as soon as I hear something.”
The men and women assembled soon sorted themselves out into four major groups, each one determining who was the senior person present and starting a list of requirements. Tombstone watched, fielded questions as they came to him, and was not surprised when Bratton eventually ambled over to him with a quizzical look on his face. “If you’re going to run this as a military organization, then you’re going to need an executive officer. Who’ve you got in mind?”
“You volunteering?” Tombstone asked.
Bratton smiled slightly. “Of course not, Admiral,” he said, stressing the last word ever so slightly. “We’re prohibited from assuming any direct command of operations inside the United States. Just like the military is.”
Tombstone nodded, acknowledging the contradiction. “Things change. Like I said — you volunteering?”
Bratton held his gaze steadily, letting the pleasant, supercilious expression drop from his face. Tombstone, for the first time, saw the steel underneath the polished surface. This man had actual operational experience in many places that Tombstone was familiar with, and on some level he could sense that a lot of it had been more close-in and dirty than Tombstone had ever seen. “I could, I suppose,” Bratton said finally. “But let’s face it — you know I’m not used operating in this theater. Greenfield is.” He nodded toward the FBI agent, immersed in setting up the operations department. “He’ll be good for you there. And he’s the only one who really has much experience inside the United States. Not to mention at Bull Run.”
“Well, now that’s impressive,” Tombstone said. He didn’t elaborate — he didn’t have to. “I’ll take your advice under consideration, Mr. Bratton. And I appreciate your insight. Let’s just leave the matter open for now, how about it?”
The supercilious expression was back on Bratton’s face. “You’re the boss,” he said in a good-natured voice. “Just thought I’d bring it up.”
The Navy Intelligence petty officer conducting the third briefing of the staff sergeant was clearly at the end of a long day. He was thorough, the staff sergeant thought, going through the postmission checklist and asking every pertinent question, but it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it. After all, the Sergeant had already conserved every question earlier. Still, he did his job. It was only when they got to the description of the truck and its deceased occupants that his ears pricked up.
“Ten, you say?” he asked, pausing from his scribbling, a look of interest on his face.
“Yes. I counted them.” The staff sergeant repressed a shudder as the men’s faces loomed before him, blackened and distorted. “Twice.”
“And two in the front seat.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The sergeant put down his pencil and shut his eyes, rubbing his fingers at the corners. A frown creased his forehead and he sighed. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’ve been using patrols composed of seven men. You’ve got twelve in the truck. That tells me it’s not two patrols and it’s not one. Were they all roughly in the same state of decomposition?”
“Looked like it.”
“Were the keys in the truck?”
The staff sergeant stared at him. “I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“Think about it.”
The staff sergeant shut his eyes, picturing the interior of the vehicle. Worn, more than it should have been. There had been a crack in the windshield, something they should have fixed. One side window missing, along with part of the instrument panel. And there, where the ignition should have been—“Gone,” he said, opening his eyes. “No keys.”
“No keys,” the intelligence sergeant echoed, now frowning. He stood up abruptly and said, “Wait here. The intelligence officer is going to want to talk to you.”
The officer. But why? Just because there weren’t keys in the ignition? The staff sergeant ran through the possibilities, trying to decide what it was that alarmed the other sergeant. He had just concluded that he didn’t know when the sergeant returned, an Army captain following him.
“Captain Henry,” the officer said by way of introduction. He slid into the seat opposite the staff sergeant. “Sergeant has been telling me what happened. I have a few questions for you.”
