Dave Tanner appeared in the seat next to him. “How is she?”
“She’s going to be all right,” he said. “Apparently, she’s got a hard head.”
Dave didn’t ask any more questions and Nick leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and dreamed of open fields of grass, swaying in the breeze. A mountain full of trees loomed over a valley with a cool stillness. Somewhere in the distance a child giggled.
Walt Jackson and Louis Dutton were never the closest of associates. Dutton always tolerated Jackson’s defense of his Baltimore Field Agents and Jackson merely endured Dutton’s arrogance as FBI Director. But ever since the KSF began their bombing spree, the two men seemed to unite in an unspoken bond.
In a gesture of great deference, Dutton declared the Baltimore FBI field office as the command center for the KSF operation. This gave Jackson the show of confidence that not only FBI agents took notice of, but the White House as well. Louis Dutton was throwing his support behind Walt Jackson and if there were going to be any political scapegoats, they were going to have to indict the entire agency, not just Walt.
Inside of the War Room, Jackson paced in front of the computer-generated images projected onto the white walls. There were twelve separate images of varying sizes. Some showed a constant satellite image of suspected KSF safe houses, while others displayed radar screens. At the end of the wall, sentences scrolled downward in a continuous display of real-time Associated Press releases. The image getting most of the attention was the illustration of North America.
Jackson wore a sophisticated headset with a wireless transmission that contained seventy-five separate frequencies. In his left hand was a tiny control panel that he used to direct the traffic of information that he was constantly receiving. Feeding him the data were ten FBI analysts, twenty-two FBI terrorist specialists, three CIA operatives, and two NSA analysts who were furiously feeding information into the multi-million-dollar computer linkup between all three agencies’ database. A merging of information the intelligence agencies had never seen before.
The analysts wore headsets of their own and sat in cubicles set up in the War Room, each one with his or her own assignment. Once their information became significant, they buzzed Jackson and updated him on any modifications.
Jackson strolled across the front of the room, a maestro conducting a symphony of data. Dutton caught up to Jackson, both of them with unbuttoned collars and loosened ties. Dutton scanned a printout of the latest KSF arrests while Jackson stared at the immense visual of the United States.
“According to our best estimates,” Dutton said, peering down at his information, “we’ve been able to capture sixty percent of their force.”
Jackson nodded. “That leaves three hundred or so still on the loose.”
“And the names that aren’t on this list include the top twenty soldiers in their arsenal. So we’ve gotten their pawns, but their upper echelon remains intact.”
Jackson pushed a button on his remote. “Janice, exactly how many KSF remain unaccounted for?”
He turned to Dutton, “Two hundred and ninety four to be precise.”
Dutton’s focus remained on the data sheet. “You know, Walt, this kid in Colorado was talking way too much to—” He looked up at Jackson and saw him holding up his finger, requesting silence while he listened intently to an analyst talking in his earpiece.
“Okay,” Jackson said, nodding, agreeing with the analyst who sat in front of a computer screen less than twenty feet away. “I understand.”
Jackson clicked a button on his control panel, then slid half of his headset down so he could converse with his boss. “The Navy has five subs scouring the shoreline. The Army is scoping every lake, stream and pond within fifty miles of the White House.”
“This KSF guy could’ve been blowing smoke.”
“I think it’s the best juice we have to go on. He had no reason to fabricate a story like that. Especially when he believed the man he’s talking to was going to be dead in a few seconds. If he wanted the guy to leave this world with a dire outlook for the future, he could’ve said they were going to detonate a nuclear weapon and destroy the eastern seaboard. But no, he specifically said a missile would hit the White House from underwater. That’s too precise to be made up.”
A young analyst handed Jackson a sheet of paper. “The computer confirms our hypothesis.”
Jackson scanned the sheet, then examined the map with narrowed eyes.
Dutton looked over his shoulder. “Makes sense,” he said.
Jackson took a swig of cold coffee. “I believe the info our friend ascertained in the restroom was genuine. I think Kharrazi probably is thousands of miles from here, and if you figure how much scrutiny the borders are receiving, well… it’s only logical.”
Jackson placed his mug down. “Tolliver, Downing,” he barked.
A moment later, two disheveled men with droopy eyelids lumbered up to their boss.
“You guys look like crap,” Jackson said. He got a perfunctory shrug from Tolliver while Downing just stared back.
Looking past them, over their shoulders, Jackson said, “I want you to take Farnworth, Curtin and Chambers with you to Las Vegas.”
“Vegas? Where they kidnapped Nick’s brother?”
“That’s right. We suspect that’s where their headquarters is stationed. We’ll get the National Guard and local authorities to assist you.”
“Las Vegas is a big town, Walt. You want us to go door to door?”
Dutton stuck his nose in the circle. “You’re right,” he sneered. “Let’s just call it a day and grab some donuts.”
Jackson regarded his men with raised eyebrows, the Director of the FBI next to him with his hands on his hips. Power like that money couldn’t buy.
“Yeah, yeah, we got the message,” Tolliver responded wearily. Both men shuffled off like they were being sent to the gas chamber.
A light flashed on Jackson’s remote designating an incoming call. He pushed the appropriate button and said, “Jackson.”
“I just read the paper,” Samuel Fisk’s voice was somber.
Jackson looked at his watch. Was it almost 6 AM already? “You’re working early this morning, Mr. Secretary.”
“Actually, I’m working late. I took a break to read the Post and found an interesting story about a homicide in a nightclub down on Thames. Supposedly the victim was Kurdish. Anything I should know?”
“Nothing you should know, Sir.”
“Is this for my own good?”
“Nothing you should know, Sir,” Jackson repeated.
A pause. “I see. Well, I hope this nothing afforded us some valuable information.”
“You’re an insightful man, Mr. Secretary.”
“Walt?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“The President refuses to vacate the White House. We’re going to stash him down in the bunker. He’ll be safe there unless there’s reason to suspect this thing could be nuclear.”“There is not a shred of evidence that suggests that. However, I would still do everything I could to get him out of there.”
A frustrated voice came back, “Shit, Walt, is the White House going to be ground zero tonight, or not?”
Jackson hesitated. If he waffled about his ability to prevent the White House bombing, he may as well hand in his resignation right then. “Not on my watch, Mr. Secretary.”
There was silence. When Fisk finally spoke, his voice seemed to contain a smile. “Exactly what I wanted to hear. How’d you know that?”
“Because it’s the truth,” Jackson said. “And I know you always want the truth.”