Duncan’s practiced confident stride didn’t falter when he saw the press, who had been allowed back on base for this press conference, turn and face him. Photographers snapped photos and Duncan met them with his handsome face held high. His eyes were set and serious. His shaved head and rigid posture letting the watching world know that this former man of action would take action. But while his body language spoke of a man ready to wage a war, his mind fought with the fact that the words he would offer were ultimately hollow.
General Keasling and Dominick Boucher, head of the CIA, waited for him at the podium that had been erected at the center of the quad. Construction vehicles were hard at work in the background, a strategic view to let the people know that recovery was already under way. The two men were his closest advisors on the subject of war. He nodded to them as he passed and ascended the podium steps.
The seated press suddenly stood, no longer able to control their brewing barrage of questions. A sea of voices flooded over him. He raised his hands for quiet, ignoring the individual voices.
When the press realized he wouldn’t be answering any questions yet, they quieted down and let him speak. He delivered his speech, offering contrived words and phony facial expressions. He asked for patience while they hunted down the identities of those responsible for the attack. He promised swift and just action. And he pleaded for calm and logic, reporting anything strange to the authorities instead of taking action into their own hands.
Much of this was the truth, but just as much was misdirection. Duncan knew the best deceptions were ninety-nine percent truth, so as he crafted his story, he worked in the truth about the number of dead, the monetary costs to rebuild, and the timing of events. But he added a layer of deceit when he placed blame on the Arab world. He mentioned Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen by name. He dropped the names of known terrorist organizations and played the Osama bin Laden card. At the same time, he couldn’t blame any one of them specifically and no one was taking credit.
What made the deception worse was that his words fueled tensions around the world. Hate crimes against Arab-Americans would increase. Violence in the Middle East and Israel would continue. And actual terrorists, bolstered by the belief that some of their own had wounded the heart of the American military, would find their ranks replenished.
As Duncan took a breath, a daring reporter used the momentary silence to shout a question. “Senator Marrs has laid the blame for the deaths of several thousand United States citizens on your shoulders. How do you—”
Duncan’s frustration got the better of him. “Senator Marrs is a self-serving vulture,” he said, then immediately regretted it. His own anger was eating him up. He had no desire to be here. To be lying to these people. He needed to take action, not manage his reelection PR. Screw the upcoming election, he needed to get things done.
But his hands were tied. He knew that. Every action the president made during a crisis was scrutinized. Too much time fulfilling the duties of Deep Blue would garner unwanted attention for the team for whom secrecy was tantamount. When the Chess Team, when the world, needed Deep Blue the most, his duty as the president always got in the way.
As the sea of stunned reporters wrote down the quote that was sure to be the next morning’s headline, he said, “Thank you. That’s all for now.”
Duncan took the stairs down from the podium two at a time, catching the press off guard. Silence lingered for a moment before the din of questions came. Leaving the loud voices behind, he approached Keasling and Boucher. “This is a waste of time,” he grumbled.
Boucher matched the president’s stride as he walked back to The Beast. “It’s your job, sir.”
A Secret Service agent opened the rear door. Duncan paused before entering. He looked back over at the press who were being held at bay by a line of military security. It all seemed a ridiculous circus to him. He met Boucher’s eyes. “I know, Dom. I’m just starting to see things a little differently.”
Duncan climbed into the dark interior of the car and slid into the shadows. Before the Secret Service agent could close the door, Boucher climbed in next to him.
Duncan sighed. “What?”
As The Beast pulled away, Boucher smoothed his mustache and said, “Tom, this will all blow over.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“He’s a hot-air bag. People are going to realize that when the dust clears. They always do.”
“You’re assuming the dust will clear.” Duncan looked out the tinted, bulletproof window. The ruins of Fort Bragg passed by as they headed for Pope Air Force Base. “We don’t even know what we’re up against.”
“We will,” Boucher said, filling his voice with confidence. “You’ve got the best team—”
“An incomplete team.”
Boucher nodded. When Deep Blue was unavailable it took a team of CIA analysts and strategists to replace him. But the team could never operate at full efficiency without Deep Blue directly involved. When the CIA team handled ops they still needed executive approval on the big calls—decisions that could not be made from a press conference podium—the delay could cost lives. Having Deep Blue in the game gave the team real-time executive power. Fleets could be diverted, air support called in, or political pressure applied with a phone call.
“Even without you, they’re still the best. They’ll get the job done.”
“And if they don’t? If Marrs continues to control the airwaves?”
“He won’t.”
“You going to make him disappear?” Duncan said, a grin showing on his face.
“Don’t need to,” Boucher said before switching on the TV. It wasn’t Marrs on the screen. It was Duncan. “Senator Marrs is a self-serving vulture.”
“You came out swinging. The American people will remember you’re a fighter. And so will Marrs. He’s not going to want a second round.”
“I hope you’re right, Dom.”
“I’m a spook. I’m always right.”
TWENTY-THREE
Rome, Italy
“THE TEMPLE OF Saturn,” Pierce said as they rounded the ruins of an ancient temple that had been reduced to a foundation and eight columns supporting a worn but still impressive pediment. “The Senate and people of Rome restored what fire had consumed.”
“What?” King asked as he looked up at the impressive columns.
“The inscription,” Pierce said, panning his flashlight beam across the text etched into the pediment. “The original temple, which was the oldest structure in Rome, built in 498 B.C., was dear to the city. And when it burned down they rushed to rebuild it. In fact, they were in such a rush that one of the columns was placed upside down.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“For the builders more than the temple,” Pierce said. “It’s rumored those responsible were killed in the Coliseum.”
“The wrath of Saturn,” King said.
Pierce shook his head. “The wrath of Rome. Saturn was the god of agriculture.”
Pierce narrated the history of Rome in hushed tones like a conspiratorial tour guide. They continued onward from the temple, following the serpentine path as it twisted past what little remained of the Milliarium Aureum. It was once a statue of Augustus Caesar where all roads in the Roman Empire were said to begin, but had long since been reduced to a marble base.