Of course, the televisions stayed on CNN and Fox News, with their continuous news tickers scrolling at the bottom: Metroliner rail down in Trenton, NJ… Terrorism suspected… Five hundred believed dead… Mall of America implodes… Thousands believed killed… Charlotte Coliseum destroyed… 12,000 in attendance… Dead and injured tally unknown.
Meredith shook her head. All the warnings and inspections and new government offices to prevent this, but somehow we failed.
“We’re still getting information in,” a voice said behind her. “We’ll have a meeting in thirty minutes in the operations center.”
She turned and saw Hellerman poking his head in her door. He had a handsome, tanned face framed by two shocks of gray hair that gave way to natural brown on the top. Perfect, bone-white teeth flashed, even when he wasn’t smiling.
She placed the pictures back in the desk and stood.
“I was just reading some of the cables. Have you seen this?” She held up a small manila folder.
“What is it?” Hellerman said, entering the office.
“This Predator thing,” she said, “I’m thinking this might be linked somehow. Was Peyton able to get anything else out of Matt?”
For weeks she had been studying the Predator case. Highly classified technology had been given to the Chinese, and now it seemed the military was missing eighteen Predators. Those things don’t just get up and fly away, Meredith thought. Each of them was concerned that China could migrate the technology to the Iraqis, who could then put them to use in the current conflict. She knew she was treading on thin ice; most of the transfers were suspected to be political paybacks from several years ago.
“I don’t know. Let’s just hope we can put the genie back in the bottle, as they say,” Hellerman said after a moment of thought.
“I think the saying is, ‘You can’t put the genie back in the bottle,’” she quipped.
“Have you seen this?” he said with raised eyebrows, changing the topic.
She stepped forward and took the folder from his hand. Someone had placed a Top Secret cover on it. Opening the file, she saw the standard cover disclaimer telling the reader that he or she would be shot at high noon on the White House lawn if he or she ever disclosed the material within to unauthorized personnel, or words to that effect.
Turning the next page, she read the cover, “Operation Maple Thunder.”
“Of course, but do I need to read it again?” Meredith asked.
Hellerman sat in a burgundy, high-backed leather chair facing her desk. Meredith sat in its twin across the small table with a bowl of candy in the middle.
“I think Ballantine is behind the bombings today. We have an operative ready to go in alone and snatch him in his hideout in Canada. The Canadians are refusing to cooperate and assure us there’s no terrorist operating from their country. So the trick is doing something, but making it look like we did nothing. Our operative is perfect. He has the perfect cover. He can go in and do this thing and if he fails, we have deniability; if he succeeds, we have deniability. Read it,” he said pointing down at the folder. “We need to talk to the president shortly.”
Meredith opened the file and scanned its contents then placed it in her lap. Her first thoughts were sparked by instinct, but she fought them back in order to formulate an objective report. Huh, she thought.
“Sounds like a good idea if we really believe this guy can get close to Ballantine. So, really, what’s our deniability?” she asked.
“Complete. In the administration only the president, you, and I know about this. On the back page are the names of two people at Fort Bragg who know: the special operations commander and the doctor who brought him back to life, so to speak. And they are the only ones who know this individual’s name.”
“When I was looking at this the other day, I wondered whether you were okay with this from a moral point of view,” she said.
“What’s not to be okay?”
Meredith watched him carefully. He was baiting her. He wanted her to fight him on this one, she could tell.
“For one, the government is taking an individual and giving him a new identity without him knowing who he really is. As you say, we don’t even know who he is. The legal, moral, and ethical implications reach far beyond what any of us can imagine.” She spoke without emotion, no hint of criticism in her voice. She was just playing the role she knew he needed.
“Sure, but if we get close to Ballantine and can stop him before he kills another five thousand people, then we justify it,” Hellerman countered.
“First, we don’t know that Ballantine did this,” she said, pointing at the television. “Second, even if that’s true, what happens to our secret killer? We’ve now programmed him to be someone else. Does he continue in this vein, or do we then try to fix him back the way he was?”
“Too hypothetical, Meredith—”
“I don’t think so. Maybe it’s too hard, but it’s not hypothetical. We have to think about the end state with this guy, assuming he can do this.”
Hellerman tapped a finger against his pursed lips. “Your contention is that we are only doing what is expedient now, the future of this one individual be damned.”
“It’s a position,” she said neutrally. She wasn’t quite sure what she believed, but everything she had said sounded logical to her. They were both making it up as they went.
“Well, we’re told that he has recovered completely from his coma. Colonel Rampert, the special ops commander, and the doctor worked out a rehabilitation regimen for him and they say he’s ready.”
“What are the possible courses of action?” she asked quietly.
“Simple,” he said. “We either execute Operation Maple Thunder, to kill or capture Ballantine, or we don’t.”
“Yes, sir, but how do we do it?
“Look, in fifteen minutes we need to advise the president about what he should do.”
Fifteen minutes, my ass.
“I mean, do we send him up there to fish, or do we parachute him in and let him wander up to the fishing camp—”
“Both options have been considered along with a few others. But ultimately, it’s Rampert’s call.”
“We should know. The president should know, sir.” She wrinkled her brow in determination.
“I agree. We can do a video teleconference and save time.”
“Let’s do it,” she said.
Ezekial Jeremiah, a tall, black Naval Academy graduate stuck his head in the door, eyes wide with concern. “Uh, sir, we’ve… we’ve lost contact with Matt Garrett’s airplane.”
“What do you mean, ‘lost contact’?” snapped Hellerman.
“Exactly that, sir. Transponder went off about thirty minutes ago, and now we have no idea where the plane is. We’ve lost contact with the pilot and radar is not tracking it. I’ve contacted the AWACS; they may be able to collect on it from the air,” Jeremiah said.
“Where was the airplane’s last position?” Hellerman asked.
“Crossing from Pennsylvania, near Williamsport, into New York, heading north.”
“New York? Why so far north? Weren’t they going to Fort Bragg, in North Carolina?” Meredith asked.
“That’s correct.”
“Okay, work the AWACS and notify special ops. Meanwhile, I’ll call the president so we can get this briefing spun up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hellerman walked toward the door then turned.
“I know how you feel about Matt. I hope this isn’t as bad as it sounds.”