McGreevy’s eyes glittered. “It does, Mr. President,” she said. “I’ll hold onto State until my Deputy is up to speed, and then transfer it to him.”
The President nodded. “We will not allow this tragedy to destroy us, or everything we hold dear,” he said. “America will endure, whatever happens.”
“Am I making a mistake?”
Toby winced, inwardly. The President often asked him for advice on political matters; one of the many reasons he was so useful to the President was that he kept his finger firmly on the pulse of opinion, both public and political. Politically speaking, appointing McGreevy Vice President was a sound move. Her constituency would be happy, the feminist lobby would be delighted to see a woman in the Vice President’s position and it would limit her ability to take independent action. On the other hand, it would put her right next to the President — and if something happened to him, she’d be President. And she was working for the aliens.
But he didn’t dare say it out loud. The aliens would know that he knew about them — and then they would act. If they drew a line between Toby and his father, they might be able to uncover most of the resistance and then destroy it. And they might be able to follow up by destroying the cells of resistance members in the government… Toby knew too much to be allowed to fall into enemy hands. He just hoped that he’d be able to commit suicide if the enemy ever did get their hands on him.
“I think that she would be an asset,” he said, untruthfully. And politically — he was right. “But her ambition does make her dangerous.”
The President nodded, slowly. Ambition was always dangerous in political subordinates; given a chance, they might see advantage in stabbing their superiors in the back. But if McGreevy took the Vice President’s position, she would take part of the blame for any failures by the President’s government. Whatever they might have said publically, Toby knew that certain members of the Democratic Party had breathed a sigh of relief when Gore had failed to beat Bush in 2000. Gore, a former VP himself, would have found himself taking much of the blame for 9/11.
“But there’s no strong alternate candidate,” the President said. He smiled with black humour. “I think we’re stuck with her.”
And hope that the aliens don’t use her to strangle us, Toby thought, sourly. By now, the entire world would know that the VP was dead. And America would want to see the President taking control, to remind them that life would go on.
Silently, he drew his plan together in his mind. If they had enough time, perhaps they could give the aliens a shock. And maybe, just maybe, expose them for what they really were.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Al Udeid Air Base/Virginia
Qatar/USA, Day 40
The heat slapped at Sergeant Albert Cunningham’s face as he double-timed it towards the Special Operations Command Centre and the promise of air-conditioning inside the building. Four months in the Middle Eastern heat had hardened him to some degree, yet he still disliked the temperature, the insects and most of the people. Maybe that was a little unfair — hell, it was a little unfair — but most of the people he met in his line of work tended to be terrorists, smugglers or religious nuts. SOCOM still ran operations all over the region, with remote-controlled Predators and covert operation teams hunting down terrorists and disrupting their networks before they could form. Most of the governments in the Middle East turned a blind eye. After the big pullout from the region — after oil became little more expensive than water — the Princes and Emirs and Dictators of the Middle East were in for a nasty surprise from their own people. Their castles were literally built on sand.
He scowled as the noise of a heavy transport aircraft echoed overhead. American soldiers were being evacuated from the Middle East, travelling back home as fast as an overworked transport network could deliver them. Albert had been expecting to be recalled himself, even though his Force Recon unit was blacker than black; there seemed to be little need to keep a major American presence in the Middle East. Or at least that was what the government was saying publicly. Privately, Albert has his doubts. The terrorists who hated America for being better than them were unlikely to just allow the US to leave in peace. There had already been a series of nasty demonstrations that had almost turned violent.
The guard checked his identity carefully, scanning Albert’s eyes with a pocket retina scanner before allowing him to enter the command centre. Terrorists had proved themselves to be alarmingly capable of getting inside supposedly secure areas, even in relatively peaceful Qatar. The buddies Albert had lost in Afghanistan stood as mute testament to the skills of the Taliban fighters, who combined a single-minded devotion to their version of Islam with fighting skills that relied on wearing down the enemy and breaking his determination to carry on the fight. No one should be inside the fence without clearance and nobody, but nobody, was allowed into the centre without a careful security check. And no one who wasn’t American was ever allowed inside. The reliability of people in the Middle East couldn’t be predicted accurately.
And nor could the reliability of some Americans, he added mentally. The Vice President could have testified to that. No one knew for sure who was to blame for his death, but hundreds of terrorist groups were already claiming the credit. The grapevine claimed that the Teams would be sent after the loudest claimants, extracting revenge for the assassination before the pullout was completed. It was as good a theory as any other.
Inside, it was cooler. The handful of people within view worked at their terminals, muttering orders into their headsets as they struggled to coordinate the big pull-out. No one outside the military really appreciated how much material the United States had stockpiled in the region, including weapons and supplies that would change the balance of power in the wrong hands. Some of it would probably be turned over to America’s allies, but the rest of it would have to be transported back to the US, left in secure storage or destroyed. It wouldn’t be an easy task.
“Sergeant,” a voice said. Albert looked up to see Brigadier O’Neil, a former SF soldier who’d been injured while on operations and confined to working in the rear until he could pass his tests and go back into the field. The SF troops appreciated working with someone who knew what they could do — and also what they needed to get their jobs done. Even the more secretive units like Albert’s team needed to draw supplies from the rear. “If you’ll come with me…?”
Albert felt an uncomfortable sensation in his gut as he was led into a small room. A man he vaguely recognised from a briefing rose to his feet as Albert entered, holding out a hand for him to shake. Albert shook it firmly, guessing that the man spent most of his time behind a desk back home. The thought jogged his memory into high gear and it produced a name. Albert Demeter, the Director of the CIA. They shared the same first name.
O’Neil shut the door firmly behind him, cutting off all noise from the outside world. Even the omnipresent roar of aircraft was gone. Albert’s eyes widened as the CIA Director picked up what was evidently a counter-surveillance tool and turned it on, carefully sweeping the entire room. He even checked Albert’s hair and equipment belt. Nothing about it made sense, Albert decided, and it left him with a bad feeling. Why would the Director of the CIA carry out a sweep he’d normally have an underling do?
“I’ve been told that you and your team are the best Special Forces operatives in the world,” the Director said, without preamble. “Is that actually true?”