“Yes, sir,” Landau said, chuckling only slightly. “Now we know that Qaddafi purchased a set of designs through his IRA contacts. We’ve known for many years that he wants nuclear weapons. Just about any leader in the Middle East would. He’s tried in the past to buy them whole from India and from the Chinese.”
“Herb, I’m not well versed on this issue, but I thought the actual design of a weapon was not extremely complicated, I mean, we’ve had college students design bombs for their theses and doctorates for over ten years. Some guy did it while I was at UCLA.”
“I may be less versed than you.” Both men looked to Bud.
“My specialty was defensive penetration. I know a little, and probably as much about Vishkov.” Bud mentally reached back to his days as a member of the military ‘in club.’ “First, you’re partly right about the design aspect of it. The general design is within the abilities of most physics grad students, and a more detailed one could probably be managed by those same students with a little added knowledge and some delving on their part. The problem is that all these designs lack detailed spec sheets. Those are the parts lists: everything you’d actually need to build the thing. The builders of the first A-bomb called it the ‘gadget,’ and rightly so. Even the stuff we have today — artillery shells, warheads, etcetera — is extremely difficult to construct because of the close tolerances. Some of it’s unbelievable. A few microns off and the thing doesn’t work. You just end up with a squashed core and a minor radioactive mess.”
“But Vishkov made some breakthrough in the design,” Landau interjected.
“If there was a breakthrough, why wasn’t it bigger news to our intelligence agencies?”
The DCI’s silence signaled his non answer.
“Bud?”
He didn’t know, either. “I think we need someone more knowledgeable to brief us on that point.” The president and DCI agreed.
“Okay. So they may have placed a weapon on the aircraft. Three questions. First: Can they build a nuclear weapon? They have the plans, but what about the material and the technology to actually construct it? Second: What are they going to do with it if there is a nuclear weapon? Third: What can we do to stop this?”
Bud thought the chief executive was remarkably calm. “Sir, trying to answer the first right now will be useless until we get some technical information first. As for what they’ll do, I think we need the input of the NSC on that…” Bud saw the president nod, signaling him to continue. “My thoughts, well”—Bud brought a hand behind his head, pinching the neck muscles—“this feels like an overall effort. It’s entirely possible that both the incidents are related. The assassination could have been meant to embarrass us and prove that we’re vulnerable. It also can add a factor of disarray to the transitional period. Your perceived inexperience probably was seen as the perfect target to interject some chaos.” Bud hated to say that, but it was reality. The press, fueled by the opposing candidates in the presidential campaign, had had a field day with the then vice presidential candidate. Fortunately it was largely ignored by the voting public, but, knowing the media, Bud was sure it would be hashed up shortly. Doubt was an easy sell in the papers. “The hijacking may be planned to exploit any confusion caused by the assassination. Maybe they’ll push for some concessions on who knows what. With the statement they issued anything could be on their wish list.”
The president left the trio of questions for a moment. “What does Delta think?”
“They’re in the early stages of planning,” Bud answered. “Andrew says they need more intelligence — how many hijackers, what weapons, etcetera. And they’re going to need to know what may be on there. If they go in, they’ll have more than the hijackers to deal with.”
The president went back to his desk and flipped open his gray schedule book. “Bud, you have overall authority for handling this situation. Any final decisions are mine, but your recommendations will carry weight. Get the ball rolling if you need to, then inform me. I want a report at two this afternoon on progress, and if anything major happens I want to know immediately. Herb, any chance the asset you spoke of can get some information for us about what’s on the plane?”
“Possibly,” Landau replied. “But it will almost certainly compromise him.”
“Which means?”
“We’ll have to extract him.”
There were ramifications to everything a president or high government official decided or authorized, this event being a good example. The president pondered the decision. Reaction! He was forced into reacting to the assassination and the hijacking. The thought irked him, and also reminded him to be prudent. “Go ahead. I’ll put it in writing. Is this going to fall under the covert operations reporting requirement?”
“The extraction, yes.” The DCI wanted to add a caution, “But…”
“We’ll report on that after the fact,” the president said. Landau smiled and nodded. “I’m going to get Gordy in here. He needs to know about this, but I want the nuke theory kept quiet. Only those that need to know get it. No leaks.”
There was no response. It was an order that needed none.
“Let’s get to it and hope for the best” The president looked hopeful and confident to Bud. That was good, he thought, but then remembered the president’s stone debating face. He brushed that thought aside, which was just as well, because if he had looked closer he might have seen the worry in the chief executive’s eyes.
Seven
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
The D.C. morning rush was nearly over. Joe Anderson had barely arrived at his Department of Energy office when a phone call sent him scurrying out to a waiting government car. The driver, seemingly annoyed at his taxi driver status, directed Joe to sit in the front seat next to him. No more was said during the short drive to the White House. Joe had been there before, once, to receive a quiet thanks from the president. There was a citation of sorts, but it was all classified. That came with the territory. He wasn’t a war hero, after all.
This was a little odd, however. No warning at all. If there had been he might have dressed for the occasion. Maybe his blue three piece, the one his wife picked out to make sure he matched. “You didn’t marry me for my fashion sense,” he often joked with her. The Park Service guards at the Executive Avenue entrance looked as serious as one could be, and there were more of them. They waved the shiny black Ford through the cement planter barricades.
A few minutes later he entered the comfortable office on the ground floor of the White House. He recognized the two men right away.
“Captain Anderson.” Bud stood and walked around his desk, shaking the visitor’s hand. “I’m Bud DiContino, the president’s national security adviser.”
“Yes, I recognize you from the news.” Joe turned to the DCI.
“Herb Landau, Joe.” He stayed seated in a wing back chair. Joe walked over to greet him.
“Mr. Director.”
“Have a seat, Captain.” Bud touched the back of a chair. “Director Landau filled me in on your background — it’s very impressive. He recommended we contact you.”
Joe fidgeted visibly. “I hope I’m of some help.”
He looked like a cross between a college professor and a drill instructor. Passionless eyes and tight skin topped by silver-gray hair. He was forty-seven. The hair must have been a family trait, Bud thought. It looked too natural to be caused by aging. And the voice: deliberate and measured. Every word carried maximum impact and was spoken slowly.