But, as soon as they got word that…
She stopped herself again. The connection she was making between the errant airliner and Bronson’s text message was a leap. No, it was worse. It was her tendency to connect dots that didn’t yet exist. She hadn’t even read the text he’d received. Maybe it had nothing whatsoever to do with the airliner. Maybe it was a laundry list, or his mother asking him to bring a quart of milk to dinner.
But what if it did connect? The thought was rising like a silent tide. Maybe Will Bronson didn’t know what was going to happen, but obviously he and his people knew enough to get concerned when someone at NSA discovered a sky full of strange signals.
Dammit, none of it was anything but speculation! She desperately wanted hard conclusions.
Jenny let out a long sigh, unconsciously shaking her head as she reached for the water bottle always by her computer and took a long drink.
Okay. Strict logic, girl. No intrigue. No leaps. No return to my paranoiac youth. Point one: This can’t involve some sort of secret planned military test or exercise or Bronson would never have come over here to begin with, let alone involve his minions back at Boling. They would have already known what those signals were. Point two: If they suddenly connected the dots between the answering radio burst and the airliner hijacking, and that prompted his hasty evacuation, that doesn’t prove the DOD is involved. Maybe it just means that they needed to get back and handle the intelligence questions that will inevitably follow the offshore hijack of an American aircraft.
But there was a point three, and she couldn’t avoid thinking about it: What if whatever’s happening somehow involves some clandestine operation by our military that has to be hidden at all costs? The fact that we know about it means the operation is leaking, and may be spinning out of control.
Jenny sat in silence for a minute reviewing the chain of thoughts. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the mouse pad, then flicked her hair back and picked up a pencil to chew on the eraser—a comforting habit since grade school that her father had hated. It angered her that Will Bronson hadn’t called her personally, and she blushed slightly at the thought that her pique might be more primal than professional.
But, dammit, no matter how cute the man was, could he and his team and the DOD in general really be covering something up? Was that why they called Seth, to get him to quiet her down?
This is stupid! she concluded, not entirely buying her own resolve. This is a hijacking, not something involving radioed orders to a drone. Nothing but coincidence.
Jenny realized she was looking longingly at the phone, desperately wanting to call Seth for adult supervision. His security status wasn’t high enough to justify a classified line at home, and there was no way she was going to be reckless enough to talk about this on an open line, so…
Suddenly she was fumbling through a personal address book in search of his home address, calculating just how long it was going to take to drive there, and just as quickly deciding that such a move was the sort of frightened, impulsive act that could seriously undermine his confidence in her. He’d said goodnight. Leave it alone.
Yet, there were secrets beyond that computer screen begging to be unraveled.
With a strange combination of excitement, apprehension, and resolve, she turned back to the keyboard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The White House (7:20 p.m. EST / 0020 Zulu)
No matter how many times he entered the Situation Room, Walter Randolph felt the weight of history bearing down on him. A long procession of American presidents had grappled with unfolding crises in here, he thought, some more successfully than others. How many photos had he seen over the years of grim-faced men and women gathered around this table?
How many times had he been one of them?
Walter took a seat at the far end and opened his laptop, confirming the secure channel before signing in. At the same moment, James Bergen, the director of Central Intelligence, rounded the corner looking almost presidential himself, his custom-tailored suit devoid of even the hint of a wrinkle as he flashed his practiced smile the media so loved—a smile characterizing the country’s chief spook as an affable grandfather.
“Walter! Sorry to keep you waiting. The president should be here shortly. He’s already been briefed that Moishe Lavi is a part of this equation.” Bergen shook Walter’s hand firmly, settling his five-foot-ten frame into the leather chair and waiting for the presidential aide to depart before turning to his chief deputy.
“So, what have we got that I didn’t hear from you on the way over?”
Randolph leaned toward him, keeping his voice low.
“Two things. We know Mossad would never let Lavi out of their sight, but somehow Lavi managed to ditch his tail in Tel Aviv and was off the ground before the team shadowing him knew he was even headed to the airport. They’re stunned, I’m told, and knowing our Israeli friends, some heads will roll, but that means only Lavi loyalists are aboard that jet to keep an eye on him. In other words, no adult oversight.”
“Not good, and not necessarily consistent with a trip to the US. What else?”
“I have a very worrisome tip from… let’s just say a reliable asset in a sister agency, not that we would ever spy on each other.”
“Perish the thought. I can’t let us do that. Go on.”
“James, DIA’s deep into this already. Turns out they dispatched someone to go to NSA headquarters this morning, and we think they’re working on the same problem.”
“They’re that far ahead of us?”
“Yes. My information is the DIA was talking to NSA when the aircraft changed course, which is very strange.”
“Maybe dumb luck?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Something more’s afoot here. The Pentagon is involved to a greater degree, I think, than would be reasonable if all they were doing was worrying about Lavi and the Israeli Air Force.”
“So, what do you suspect?”
The noises accompanying the entrance of several people ended the quiet exchange as the national security advisor came in just behind the assistant secretary of state, both men following an air force colonel and a navy admiral. There were greetings all around before the assembled, all-male team took their seats and unburdened notebooks just as the president, wearing a tuxedo, swept in ahead of two Secret Service agents. He rolled his eyes as he gestured over his shoulder.
“Gentlemen, as of this moment I’m supposed to be stroking egos at an East Wing shindig featuring the mind-bending combination of Yo-Yo Ma and Carlos Santana. The first lady is already irritated at this diversion, and that could translate to a cold and lonely night. And I don’t like cold and lonely nights. So, quickly… what’s going on with this hijacked airliner? James? CIA first.”
Bergen restrained himself from a sideways glance at the two military officers in the room, both of whom would have already been briefed by their Defense Intelligence counterparts.
“Mr. President, this is not a hijacking as far as anyone can tell. The flight was Pangia’s Tel Aviv to New York run, and it was halfway there when it turned around and headed back toward the Mideast. The crew didn’t even know it at first. The airline reports their pilots can’t physically control the airplane or kill the autopilot, and the most immediate problem is that Moishe Lavi is aboard.”
“Can’t control it? Do we know why?”
“No, but it has us concerned. We understand Mossad is also deeply concerned, and if Iran hasn’t picked up on this by now, it will be only a matter of time before they do.”