By the time she was out of her teens, Todd had learned to control herself—and more important, learned that everyone was human, most especially herself. The Golden Rule—Do unto others as you would have them do unto you—had become something more than just a biannual theme for a fifteen minute sermon at Sunday mass.
But every so often the forces that she’d chained deep in her psyche reasserted themselves.
“Why in the name of all that is holy,” she demanded, “was this site not found earlier?”
Reid didn’t answer.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Jonathon,” she continued, her Irish-American heritage asserting itself with the mild profanity. “How many times did I go over this with your agency?”
“I don’t have control over the analysts,” he said mildly.
“We believe we can deal with the problem,” said Breanna, stepping in. “We’ve drawn up a tentative plan for a second strike tomorrow night.”
Breanna. Good job. God bless Magnus for recommending you.
“Why tomorrow night?” Todd asked.
“It’s the soonest the assets will be in place,” said Breanna. “We want to strike quickly, obviously.”
“Before I say anything else, let me note that I expect better information, more timely, from the intelligence community,” said Todd.
“Understood,” replied Reid.
How could he argue?
This was one more reason to fire the head of the Agency—not that she needed any more.
And replace him with Jonathon?
Hmmph.
“You can determine which site it is?” asked Todd sharply.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Reid. “Or we’ll hit both.”
“Prepare for a second mission,” Todd said. “I want updates on the hour, and I want you, Jonathon, personally to vouch for the final briefing, and personally available for questions if the need arises.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good.” Todd hit the switch and dismissed them.
“It was an intelligence failure—unacceptable,” said Blitz. His face was red.
“That, Dr. Blitz, is an understatement.” Todd glanced at her watch. It was later than she thought—she was due to speak with the Secretary of State upstairs in five minutes; there was a full National Security Committee session slated immediately afterward. “Your staff will have to explain itself as well. We’ll deal with the immediate problem, then worry about Monday morning quarterbacking.”
“In this sort of situation,” said Blitz, “failure—this is why we need a change of leadership from the top at the Agency. You’ve given everyone concerned more than enough time to fail. And now, this will be—”
“Failure is not acceptable,” snapped the President, standing. “Get the Joint Chiefs ready—I want a plan to take out the remaining site. They are to report to me in an hour. Less, if possible.”
5
Suburban Virginia
THE TV DRONED ON IN THE OTHER ROOM. ZEN, HOME early and hungry, barely paid attention as he made a sandwich with leftovers from the fridge. He wheeled himself back and forth between the refrigerator and the counter island at the center of the kitchen, which was set at wheelchair height to make it easier for him to work. He was just trying to decide whether to add prosciutto to the leftover roast pork and marinated sweet peppers when the word “Iran” caught his attention. He left his sandwich and wheeled over to the family room. The late afternoon talk show had been replaced by an announcer, who according to the flashing red legend at the top of the screen was presenting “Breaking News.”
“. . . an isolated area in Iran north of the capital, Tehran. The area where the earthquake struck includes at least one known Iranian atomic research facility, raising the question of whether an accident occurred there. However, the Iranian government immediately denied there had been any human activity in the area that could have led to the earthquake . . .”
Zen listened as the reporter described the earthquake, saying that preliminary data estimated that it was in the “high fours or very low fives,” which while causing shaking would only damage very poorly built structures. This section of Iran was often subject to earthquakes, added the announcer, and it was too early for information about casualties.
“Interesting,” said Zen to himself, wheeling toward his bedroom, where he’d left his cell phone turned off. Sure enough, he’d missed a dozen calls in the last ten minutes. He scrolled through the list, then selected the number of Jenny Shapiro, one of the staff members of the Intelligence Committee.
Shapiro answered on the first ring. “Senator Stockard, have you heard the news?”
“Earthquake in Iran?”
“Atomic explosion in Iran,” said Shapiro. “More P waves than S.”
“That means something to you, I’m sure.”
Shapiro gave Zen a brief explanation of the type of shock waves generated by explosions and earthquakes. While every event had its own particular “fingerprint,” scientists generally had little difficulty differentiating between earthquakes and man-made explosions by the overall pattern of the shock waves. In this case, said Shapiro, one of the committee’s technical experts, there seemed little doubt that this was some sort of event—almost surely an accidental explosion of a nuclear device.
“Why accidental?” asked Zen.
“A couple of reasons. For one thing, the epicenter wasn’t set up as a test area, or in a known facility.” Shapiro’s Boston accent got quicker and quicker as she spoke. “But if I had to make a guess, I’d say they were putting a device together for testing elsewhere and somebody made a very big mistake.”
“Or they were helped.”
“You said that, Senator. I didn’t.”
“And we don’t know about this facility?”
“If the epicenter of the waves is where the scientists say it was—”
“What’s the word from the White House?”
“No word is the word. NSC staff say, ‘Evaluating.’ State is preparing a statement on ‘the Iranian earthquake.’ That’s what I know,” she added. “Are you going to be available for the special meeting?”
“Which is when?” Zen glanced down at the list of callers. Two were from the secretary in charge of arranging the Intelligence Committee’s meetings.
“Fifty-two minutes and counting.”
“On my way,” he said.
6
Iran
THE STARS FADED EVER SO SLIGHTLY AS THEY WALKED, as if they were pulling back from the earth. Turk’s thigh muscles burned with fatigue, but there was no time to slow or complain. He wasn’t afraid of being caught but of being left behind. The Israeli and Grease had moved at the same steady pace since they’d started, and even if he hadn’t been exhausted he would have had trouble keeping up. But he had to keep up, because the alternative was being left in Iran, and being left in Iran was unacceptable, was impossible.
Turk’s confidence wavered under the weight of his fatigue. He was back to being a pilot—competent, more than competent, in the air; nearly useless on the ground.
When they first set out for the train tracks, he thought they would arrive within minutes. To keep his brain occupied, he amused himself by picturing his arrival home, back in Las Vegas, back in Li’s arms. He felt her arms and smelled her perfume; he remembered the way they’d lain together in bed.
Now he thought of nothing and simply walked.
“Up there,” said Grease, stopping ahead and crouching.
Turk walked up to him. Grease put his hand on his shoulder and pushed him down. “Sssssh,” said the soldier.