“Which means?”
“They were taken out by a common event.”
The president looked at the paper and then up at Moore. “You think this was a weapon of some kind, based on a submarine. Maybe something went wrong, an overload of some kind. An event like that would likely destroy the platform itself, with the search parties scrambling for the wreckage.”
“That’s one possibility,” Moore said, though there was another that he didn’t want to get into. “Both Russia and China are working on energy weapons, just like we are. Either of them could have had a test bed out there.”
The president slid the papers back over to Moore. “All right, Arnold. What do you need to follow this up?”
“I need time and access. I want the keys to the NSA’s data vault, and control of the listening posts and the Pacific sonar line. And I need it done with a block on data sharing and without having to field stupid questions from NSA, CIA, or anyone else for that matter.”
The president reacted as if he’d been punched. “Damn, Arnold, why don’t you just ask for their firstborn while you’re at it?”
Moore didn’t respond. At times in the past, he and the president had spoken about the NRI’s unique role in the intelligence system. And whether it was because of their friendship or the value that the NRI provided, the president had always supported Moore when it was needed.
“I can give you everything but the sonar line,” President Henderson replied. “With the Russian fleet prowling around, Gillis will go apeshit if we block him, but I’ll have the navy forward the information to you. You have forty-eight hours. And don’t be surprised if I shorten the leash or if events supersede your request.”
Moore nodded. It would be enough to start with.
“And now for the second problem,” he said, folding his notes and putting them away. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Personal?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Moore replied. “One of my people has been kidnapped. I have reliable data implicating a group working for Chen Li Kang, the Chinese billionaire. I want to go after her.”
The president’s face turned grim. “Right now? With all this going on?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Why?”
Moore was surprised by the question; he thought the answer was obvious. “What do you mean ‘why’?”
“Does she have information that they could use against us?” the president asked.
“No,” Moore said. “Nothing that’s not compartmentalized. But she deserves better than being left to Kang. In his hands, she’s as good as dead … or worse.”
The dark look on the president’s face spoke volumes. “You and I have both taken that risk in our lives,” he reminded Moore. “It’s one of the hazards of being an operative.”
“She’s not just an operative,” Moore said, reluctantly. “She’s someone I dragged back into the business personally.”
The president paused. “What are you telling me?”
“It’s Danielle Laidlaw,” Moore said.
The president winced. Moore knew Henderson would recognize the name, that he would understand what Danielle meant to him: the daughter he never had, a protégée he now lived vicariously through in some ways. He hoped that would sway the president’s decision, but if it moved the needle at all, it wasn’t far enough.
“Arnold, you knew the answer to that question before you came in here,” he said. “Things with China have been spiraling for years. New kid on the block flexing his muscles, waiting for a chance to show the old boss that his days are numbered. This isn’t the time to stir that up.”
“Kang’s not a member of the government,” Moore pointed out. “He’s a private individual, a Chinese citizen who’s kidnapped an American citizen.”
“There are no private individuals when you get to his status,” the president said curtly.
“We can do it quietly,” Moore said insistently.
“This discussion is over,” the president said.
Moore took a deep breath. He knew better than to press an argument he could not win.
As he relented, the president threw him a bone. “We’ll work through back channels. We’ll talk to a few people.”
Moore nodded, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He stood. “I’ll update you regarding this gamma ray burst as soon as I have anything.”
Moore turned to leave and the president looked back to his stack of documents, grabbing one that he’d yet to review. Without looking up, he spoke.
“You don’t think there’s a connection between these two things?” he asked.
Moore had been in the intelligence game long enough that withholding information came naturally to him. One volunteered nothing, not even to the president of the United States.
Now the president looked at him. “Chinese fleet racing through the Bering Sea. Chinese billionaire kidnapping one of your people from Mexico. Is there a link in there somewhere?”
“Let’s hope to God not,” Moore said.
“Why?” the president asked. “What were your people working on down there anyway?”
When Moore spoke, his tone was both glib and deadly serious. “In a manner of speaking, Mr. President, the end of the world.”
CHAPTER 4
The battered jeep rambled down an uneven dirt road, a ribbon of red clay that twisted through the dark green foliage of the lower jungle.
The jeep had no doors or roof, but it carried some minor armored plating around the engine and a.50-caliber machine gun mounted atop the roll bar. It also carried three men: an African driver and his fellow gunner, wearing dark camouflage, and a white man in the passenger seat, whose own fatigues were stained with blood, sweat, and smoke and whose tanned face was coated with soot and grime.
Looking as if he’d just come from fighting a fire, he slouched in the seat, turned outward at an angle with one foot resting on the jeep’s running board and a long-barreled SIG 551 assault rifle resting in his hands.
His manner brought to mind that of a weary soldier daydreaming, but behind the dark sunglasses, his eyes were moving constantly, flicking from one section of the trees to the next, scanning up and down the dusty, reddish road.
He didn’t see anything to alarm him, hadn’t seen anything on the entire drive. And that bothered him. He’d expected at least one more wave of resistance.
He turned to the driver and asked in an American accent, “How far to the village?”
The African driver kept his eyes forward, a tense determination never leaving his body. “A mile or two,” he said. “We will be there soon enough, my friend. I promise you, the Hawk does not need to fight anymore today.”
The man, whom the others called Hawker, turned away from the driver and stared down the curving road. They’d been through hell to get this far and some instinct deep inside told him the work might not be done.
He glanced backward over his shoulder at the small convoy following them. Two hundred yards behind, a group of trucks filled with medical supplies, grains for planting, and sacks of rice traveled in single file. Accompanying the trucks were a pair of vans filled with doctors.
They were brave men and women who’d come here, beyond the reach of their governments, beyond the reach of the UN, in a valiant effort to treat the maimed and the wounded of Congo’s endless civil war.
He admired them. They abhorred fighting enough to risk their lives trying to stem its carnage in some small way. And yet they were conflicted now, having seen it up close for the past few days, not as observers or angels of mercy, but as prisoners and victims and combatants.