“Or Waco. Or Ruby Ridge,” Horton said. “For that matter, Bull Run.”
“Gentlemen,” the President snapped. “I did not ask for your presence in order to oversee a playground squabble. Frankly, we would have had this meeting earlier if I had had the time and patience. I, for one — and I’m the only one you have to worry about — am tired of seeing your infighting unfold on ACN. There will be no more of that — do I make myself clear?”
Horton’s heart sank. He’d been expecting to be at the President’s side as he dealt with Bull Run, and he was getting an ass-chewing instead. And in front of the FBI at that.
Both men were wise enough to not pretend ignorance. “OK,” the President continued. “Now, Bull Run — a major foul-up all around. It’s done, we screwed the pooch, and now we need to clean up after ourselves. No coverups, no casting blame, no turning this into political fodder. I will admit that the missions of HSD and the FBI overlap in a number of areas. I expect and I intended for there to be that overlap.” Horton started to point out that Bull Run had been an FBI operation from start to finish. HSD, despite their protests — and a good thing that was now, in retrospect — had had no input into the mission. Neither the President nor the FBI knew that HSD had intended to mount a far more aggressive mission than the FBI had actually executed.
“We are going to learn from our mistakes,” the President continued. “You know as well as I do that the whole concept of posse commitatus is under review now. I have signed an order authorizing a limited suspension of posse commitatus for the limited purpose of responding to anything else that may happen at Bull Run. Now, I don’t want this misinterpreted, not by you or by the press. We screwed up. We’ll take responsibility for it. But if Carter and his people are up to something”—and his tone of voice indicated that the President was more familiar with them than Horton was—“then we’ll be ready for it. And because both of you have an ox to gore, particularly if military force is used inside the United States, I plan on using an independent entity to coordinate operations there.”
“An independent agency?” Horton asked, incredulous.
“An independent entity,” the President said, emphasizing the last word. “This will be a trial run integrating military active and reserve forces with all our intelligence and law-enforcement agencies to quell a potential civil disturbance. I’m taking the rather radical approach of assigning a a civilian defense contractor to conduct a threat analysis and propose an operational plan.”
Horton’s jaw dropped. “Civilians? What sort of civilians? You mean like military reserve officers?”
“In a manner of speaking. The initial planning stages will be under the control of a defense contractor known as Advanced Analysis.”
The President waited, smiling slightly as he saw both men rapidly sift through their memories, trying to place the name. Chassen got it first, as the President had expected. “The Magruders, right? Nephew and uncle? They were in on that mission last year when we—”
“Need to know,” the President cautioned, shooting the FBI director a sharp look.
Now Horton was seriously worried. What had the Magruders — and, yes, now he remembered who they were — been involved in that he didn’t know about? That the FBI did? Inside the United States, or outside? And if the latter, why did the FBI know at all?
“Between them, these two men have well over sixty years of combat experience,” the President continued. “I was impressed with them both when they were on active duty, and even more so since then. So, to prevent what should be a relatively simple planning operation from turning into a turf war, they’re my guys.”
“But the actual execution of any plan—” Horton began.
The President cut him off. “May be completely unnecessary. If we get to that point—if—I’ll make my decision then. Clear? And I might point out that one factor I will consider is how well both of you have worked with the Magruders.” He fixed them with a steely glare. “You both work for me. You do remember that, don’t you?”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Horton murmured, echoed immediately by the FBI man.
“Well, then.” The President leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “There’s no need for either of you to contact the Magruders just yet. I told them that you are both completely at their disposal the moment they have any requirements. Information, resources, even advice — they ask for it, you ante up. Got it?”
A Cabinet-level appointee and he’s treating me like I’m a schoolchild. Horton glanced over to see how the FBI was taking it, but could learn nothing from the man’s expression.
Clearly, they were dismissed. Both men rose and almost in unison said, “Thank you, Mr. President.” They filed out of the office.
They were silent until they were outside the Oval Office and well down the corridor. Then the FBI officer glanced up at Horton, a much larger man, and said, “Guess we just got sent to detention.”
“It is a most unusual way of approaching it,” Horton said stiffly. “I can only hope that the Magruders are up to it. All of their experiences are overseas. Frankly, I would be surprised if they could even locate Idaho on a map.”
“Oh, I suspect they know where it is,” Chassen said calmly. “They both attended a school there — the nuclear trading prototype program, you know. It’s always been in Idaho.”
“Right, a few weeks on the Navy base in the middle of nowhere and they’re experts on domestic terrorism,” Horton snapped. He had not known there were any Navy bases in Idaho other than a few reserve facilities.
Chassen slapped Horton on the back, and Horton drew back, affronted. “Hey, look. We both just got handed our asses on a platter. I think we better try to play nice and get along, don’t you? At least, that’s what the boss wants.”
“I would hardly call interagency cooperation a matter of playing nice.”
The FBI director’s smile vanished. “OK. Then don’t play nice. I, for one, am going to do exactly what the President wants. And if I find out you’re screwing things up or that you’re holding out on the Magruders, I will personally kick your ass. And that, my friend, clearly does not fall within the definition of playing nice on the playground.”
Fifteen minutes later, A. J. Bratton knew about the President’s plan. Twenty minutes later, he had a plan of his own.
UN Ambassador Sarah Wexler thought of herself as a woman possessed of extensive reservoirs of patience and understanding, but even her resources — not so extensive as she believed — were being tested to the limit by the intransigence of certain nations. Pakistan, for one. India, for another. The squabbling over the borders, cultures, and atrocities each claimed the other had committed was a constant refrain in the United Nations. No matter that the Middle East was set to erupt again at any moment and that some dissident group had committed an act of war against an American carrier. No matter that North Korea was ranting about reunification again, that Russia’s fledgling economy was failing and dragging the rest of the former Soviet Union down in turn, and that China had a large number of military assets circling the Spratley Islands. Any one of those situations could mean a serious worldwide crisis, and it wouldn’t take much to set off any of those tinderboxes. And yet Pakistan and India aired their dirty laundry in public as thought it were the only issue into world. Hell, she was even more concerned about Chinese atrocities in Tibet that she was about India and Pakistan, and that was saying a lot.