Ballard made his face show nothing. “The disposal of all such records was handled by the Department of Military Sciences.”
VanOwen turned toward the president, whose lip curled as if he’d tasted something sour and foul.
“Then they probably still have them,” said the president.
Ballard shook his head. “Mr. Church gave his word that the records would be destroyed. He ordered his computer people to use tapeworms to track down all records and references.”
“Church gave his ‘word’?” murmured VanOwen in a way that suggested only a complete damn fool would be gullible enough to accept that.
“Mr. Church is a patriot,” said Ballard coldly. “He and his people have gone above and beyond more times than I can count. None of us would be here right now if—”
“Enough,” interrupted the president. “Church has fooled a lot of people for a long time, believe me. Everyone knows that. If he took the M3 records, then he has those records. I am going to make sure he turns them over to us.”
There was so much that Ballard wanted to say, but he forced himself to rely on forty years of military experience to simply reply, “Yes, sir.”
“General,” said the president, holding out a hand, “give me the list I asked for. The names of people who can serve as governors of my new Majestic Three.”
It cost the general a lot to comply, and opening his briefcase felt like lifting an Abrams tank bare-handed. And yet he felt like a weakling in doing it. Forty years in the air force, combat missions in both Iraq wars and in Afghanistan, two Purple Hearts and a chestful of medals for actual courage, for defending his country from threats foreign and domestic. He had served with distinction no matter who was president, and he believed that true patriotism was putting the needs of the defense of America and all of its people ahead of any party’s agenda. Now he felt like he was betraying the trust of everyone in the country.
Maybe everyone in the whole blessed world.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We drove in separate cars to the Broadway Diner.
I ordered a Chesapeake burger, which comes topped with crabmeat and Old Bay sauce. Tomatoes if you want them, which I didn’t. Lots of golden French fries. Top got his favorite from when we were both stationed here — a Juicy Lucy burger, which is stuffed with cheddar cheese and chopped bacon. I ordered two cheeseburgers without bread for Ghost, who looked properly docile in his service dog vest. The waitress knew he wasn’t anyone’s emotional support animal, but she was a dog person and brought him three patties. Her attitude toward my dog is reflected in the kind of tips I leave.
We had a corner booth and I placed an Anteater bug-detection gizmo on the table to make sure it was all clear. The device is designed to look like a clicker for my car. The lights popped green and stayed that way. The place was pretty empty, so there was no one to hear us when we leaned together for a chat.
“Called Bunny on the way over here,” said Top. “He wants to come out.”
“Tell him not to bother. We can handle—”
“He’ll be here tonight.”
I knew better than to argue. Top had a bit of mother hen in him. If he was rattled enough on my behalf to want another set of eyes on me, then he was going to get his way.
“Thanks,” I said.
Despite my parting words to Harrald, I made a call to some old friends in the Baltimore PD, and they sent a car. The five agents from the mansion and the three from the cemetery were all being treated at a local hospital. The goons from the graveyard were admitted for observation. I made a notation on my calendar to cry about it the day after hell freezes over.
I called Church and conferenced Top’s cell in. “We anywhere with figuring this out?” I asked.
“We are not,” said Church. “Bug has been poking around inside the Secret Service computers. E-mails, voicemails, procedural and case files. Whatever this is, no one is making a record of it. Or, put it another way, they are being very careful to make sure there’s no record of it, which actually tells us a lot. It suggests that they know they are acting outside of the law. The Secret Service would not do that openly unless they had some offer of protection from higher up the food chain.”
“How far up?” I asked. “The goon at the cemetery said it came from the Oval Office, but I figured he was lying.”
“Maybe not.”
“Damn,” said Top.
“Yes,” said Church.
We batted it back and forth for a bit but there was nowhere to go with it for now.
“What do you want us to do?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said Church. “Sergeant Sims, you had some days off, I believe. Feel free to go back to doing what you were doing.”
“Maybe I should loiter around and watch his back,” suggested Top.
“No need. The captain can go to the Warehouse for a night or two and wait until we have something.”
“That doesn’t sound fun,” I said.
“Life is full of little disappointments, Captain,” said Church, and rang off.
The waitress brought our food and refilled our coffee cups. She started to say something, but then she caught the looks on our faces and retreated in hasty silence.
Top poured milk into his coffee, and without looking up at me, said, “And you got no idea why the G wants your head on a pike? You ain’t pissed on anyone’s shoes lately?”
“Not that I can recall,” I said.
Top sipped his coffee and leaned back against the cushions. “Not that you can recall. And I guess you can recall every single time you pissed someone off who you shouldn’t have? I mean, just this week?”
“You have a point, Top?”
“Me? Nah. I actually like you.”
“But…?”
“You been known to ruffle some feathers hither and yon.”
“‘Hither and yon’?”
“Being poetic.” He sipped and set his cup down. “Not like you been making a secret about your feelings on how things are being run in D.C.”
“I’m allowed to have an opinion.”
“Sure. And people are allowed to get their noses out of joint about it.”
“So, you think this is a proportional response to me mouthing off?”
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Nothing’s proportional anymore, Cap’n.”
“Yeah, damn it,” I said.
We ate our burgers in a shared, troubled silence.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jennifer VanOwen spent an hour discussing the names on the list provided by General Ballard. “Well,” she said, “no to the first four, right off the top. They’re not political appointments and don’t work in government, but they’re outspoken about politics.” She shook her blond head. “We need team players, not idealists.”
VanOwen similarly eliminated most of the other scientists on the list. Some were cut because they were in the camp of climate change, which was politically inconvenient as long as petro-dollars ran the world. Others were axed because of their voting records or party affiliation; or for content on their social media pages.
“Well,” said VanOwen again, this time almost as a sigh, “there’s really only one good prospect. Donald Carpenter, CEO of Carpenter Systems out of Pasadena. His company has done extensive work with the guidance systems of the latest generations of stealth aircraft and drones, and he’s built surveillance satellites for us. However… there is someone who knows the Majestic Black Book and all of its various technologies better than anyone else.”