The long-drawn-out rumble of jet engines penetrated even the thick walls of Major General Sam Farrell’s personal office. The C-141 Starlifter pilots assigned to fly the 82nd Airborne Division into any battle were practicing touch-and-goes on Pope’s mile-long runways.
“Let me get this straight, Pete,” Farrell said wryly. “You want me to tell the Joint Chiefs and the White House to take a hike because Joe Rossini still has a mental itch he can’t scratch.”
“Well, maybe not in so many words, sir.” Thorn smiled. “I thought you might phrase it a little more diplomatically.”
Farrell chuckled. “Since I like my job, I probably would.” His expression turned serious. “But I don’t know how much slack I can cut for you and your team, Pete. We’ve got some serious budget battles on the horizon, and I can’t piss off too many people now who I’m going to need down the road later.”
Thorn nodded his understanding. He’d been hearing the rumors on the JSOC grapevine for weeks. Faced with threadbare defense budgets and a reduced worldwide terrorist threat, some in Congress and in the SecDef’s office wanted to disband at least one of Delta’s three squadrons with commensurate reductions in force for the 160th Aviation Regiment and other support units. There were senior officers in the Army’s hierarchy who supported those proposals. Some were motivated by continuing doubts about the real military utility of “special operations.” Others believed the Army would be better served by reintegrating Delta’s highly trained noncoms into regular combat units. With his command under such close congressional and JCS scrutiny, it was no wonder that Farrell was reluctant to rock the boat very much right now.
He pulled his cap off the general’s desk, preparing to rise.
“Not so fast, Pete.” Farrell waved him back down. “Don’t give up so easily. I didn’t say I couldn’t do anything at all.”
“No, sir.”
“But you will have to compromise,” the general said. “Assign most of your people to research this European neo-Nazi connection the FBI is all hot and bothered about. In turn, I’ll pull some strings with the powers-that-be. I should be able to make sure you can keep Rossini and a small team at work on this Bosnia problem. I know that’ll slow you down some, but it’s the best I can do. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough, sir.” In truth, that was more than Thorn had expected.
“Good.” Farrell rocked back in his chair. “Before you go, my wife wanted me to ask you how Helen’s doing. That was one hell of a piece of work she did inside that synagogue. But I understand she had a rough time of it afterward.”
Thorn nodded, remembering the exhaustion and regret he’d heard in Helen’s voice during their first phone conversation after she came off duty. “It was the first time she’d ever shot anyone,” he explained.
Farrell nodded sympathetically. “Killing’s never easy on the conscience.”
“No, sir.” The image of a young Panamanian Defense Force soldier rose in Thorn’s mind. The kid couldn’t have been much more than seventeen years old. He shook off the memory. “But Helen’s tough. She’s recovering pretty well. In fact, I’m supposed to see her this weekend.”
“That’s good.” The general smiled broadly. “I know Louisa would give me holy hell if anything went wrong between you two now. I think she’s already planning your rehearsal dinner.”
Thorn suddenly felt like a deer standing frozen in the headlights of an oncoming truck. And curiously, he wasn’t sure that he really wanted to spring out of the way.
CHAPTER 11
DETONATION
The National Press Club was located in a nondescript, almost seedy, concrete office building on Fourteenth Street, right in the heart of Washington, D.C. Typical drab 1940s architecture, the National Press Office building reflected the age of the organisation, but only hinted at its power.
Although technically only a professional organisation for journalists, the press club was much more. Its members included the cream of the national and even international media. Their reporting could help make or break political careers, and no self-respecting political figure could pass up the opportunity to bring his or her message before such an influential body.
Since its founding in 1908, presidents had sometimes used the organization’s forum to announce major new policies and programs. Foreign heads of state had argued their sides in international disputes. Interest group leaders of all stripes and persuasions had earnestly proclaimed their manifestos from its dais. In fact, over the years, the list of National Press Club guests had become so august that simply being invited to speak there was now a newsworthy event in and of itself.
The Reverend Walter Steele had addressed the National Press Club twice before. His first appearance, eleven years before, had come shortly after his election as the leader of one of the nation’s leading black civil rights organisations. His speech, labeled “visionary” by those in attendance and endlessly replayed on the nation’s television screens and over the radio airwaves, had firmly established him as a major player on the American political scene. His second oration, six years later, had been sharply critical of the then administration’s civil rights record further cementing his reputation as spellbinding firebrand, one with political ambitions of his own.
Since then, he had appeared on news programs, talk shows, and campaign platforms across the country, eloquently pushing a range of programs and proposals for everything from urban renewal to radical shifts in American foreign policy. He was a man of influence. A man who inspired blind devotion in some and blind hatred in others.
And now Walter Steele had asked to be “invited” to speak at a National Press Club luncheon. The rumors sweeping the capital’s cocktail circuit said he planned to announce a bid for his party’s presidential nomination and failing that, he would announce backup plans to run as a third-party candidate. Political observers ranked him as a viable contender one capable of siphoning away several million votes from an administration that had only narrowly squeaked into office.
Preparations for the Reverend Steele’s visit began that morning.
At ten o’clock Sefer Halovic crossed Fourteenth Street with the light and ambled into the National Press Office building. He was dressed casually in jeans and a longsleeved flannel shirt, with only a bright green, reversible windbreaker as protection against the cold, blustery autumn day. He listed slightly under the weight of his equipment a full load of cabling and electronics gear. Black lettering spelled out “ECNS” across the back of the jacket. The same logo was repeated in smaller letters across the windbreaker’s upper right front, with the name “Krieger” printed underneath. The name matched the one on the press pass clipped to his shirt pocket.
Obtaining the pass had been child’s play. With the explosion in cable channels both in the United States and overseas, hundreds of reporters and television and radio technicians flooded the Washington, D.C., area especially right before any scheduled event that might generate headlines and airtime. And, politically correct or not, journalism was still a hard-drinking profession. Halovic smiled inside. Last night, it had taken Yassine only seconds to separate a beer-laden cameraman from his pass inside the noisy, jam-packed confines of a hotel bar. The young Palestinian scout’s fingers were deft the by-product of a boyhood spent living hand to-mouth in southern Lebanon refugee camps.