Security was being provided by the U.S. Army, and the MPs made everyone show ID and submit to a weapons and bug search. Handguns had to be stowed in a locker under the security team’s control.
Cleared through, Tyler walked down the hallway and turned to the right, descending another set of stairs before reaching a ramp that opened into the operating center. Within a few hours he found himself sitting at terminals in a computer center, tied into various secure information networks so he could update himself on the situation in the North.
Inevitably, doubt about the mission began to haunt him as the hours went on, second and third guesses about his actions and then not even his actions but what he might have done in other circumstances, all seemingly designed by his conscience to convince him he was a failure. It was stupid and ridiculous, but he couldn’t get rid of the voice that nagged at him, calling him a failure.
Tyler read an account of a fierce tank battle about ten miles beyond the DMZ that had taken place on the first night of the war; a squad of American soldiers had become separated from the main body and found themselves confronting a Type 63 light tank. The men calmly and efficiently called in an A-10A, which within a few minutes (eight according to the report) obliterated the tank with its 30mm cannon. Tyler saw himself in the situation and began wondering if he would have handled it as smoothly.
Any objective observer would have laughed at such a ridiculous question. Of course he would have, if he hadn’t found a way to deal with the tank himself. He’d proven himself under fire countless times. Yet, he couldn’t seem to convince himself.
Tyler worked his way through a number of assessments, doing his best to focus on his task. By the time of his group meeting at three, he had a good enough handle on the situation to know where he had to look to get the data he needed. Arriving early for the session, Tyler sat and filled two pages of a yellow pad with questions that would be important to answer; he was starting on a third when the head of the group, a CIA officer named Clarissa Moore, came in with most of the rest of the members. There were several new faces, including a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff J-5 planning department and an Air Force historian who had been added to provide a broad context to the situation. The historian was dressed in civilian clothes and Tyler gathered that he was a retired colonel; his name was George Somers and he certainly looked the part of a historian, with white beard and hair around his balding head, and a heavy tweed sports coat even though it was quite warm in the bunker.
Moore made the introductions and then briefly summarized the situation in North and South Korea, along with some of the developments in nearby countries including Japan and China. She then turned to the group’s latest instructions from Washington. The NSC had asked them to prepare a report no later than the end of the week — and to base that report on “firsthand inspection of the situation on the ground.”
“Basically, they want to see the dirt under our fingernails,” said Moore.
She tapped her right hand on the conference table. Her own nails were clipped so tightly, there was no chance of any dirt hiding there. The CIA officer was about forty, with a trim body but a face that showed her experience. She wore no jewelry save for a simple set of earrings that peeked out amid the lower strands of her hair.
“So we need to put an itinerary together,” she said, “determine where we have to go, what we have to see, people to talk to. A lot of this will be the obvious, of course. And then I’ll need a small group of volunteers and someone to coordinate.”
“It’s pretty early to be going north,” said Colonel Yorn, an Army officer with extensive experience in both intelligence and artillery. “The situation there is hardly stable. I doubt there’s much to be gained from seeing it up close.”
“Should we discuss this?” asked Moore.
“I’d just like to hear the argument in favor of going up there,” said Yorn. “We’ll simply be diverting resources and attention from people who probably already have their hands full. It’s not a question of safety,” he added. “It’s a question of usefulness.”
“ Tyler?” asked Moore.
“I’ll go,” he said.
“That wasn’t quite the question,” said Moore. “Will we get useful information?”
Tyler’s thoughts wouldn’t focus. He wasn’t an intelligence expert and wanted to say that; on the other hand he understood the importance of actually being on the ground so you knew what was going on.
“It makes sense to see what we see,” he managed finally.
“I agree with the major that it would be worthwhile,” said Somers, sitting next to him. “Colonel, you’re right that it’s pretty chaotic up there right now. But I’d like face-to-face time with some of the soldiers on the scene. Not just the commanders, mind you: You can’t get an accurate assessment from just the officers. No offense.”
“It is a point,” admitted Yorn.
They discussed it awhile more. Tyler didn’t take part in the discussion. It seemed moot with Washington pushing it, but as a screw-up he really didn’t feel he had anything to add. When the debate ended, the consensus was that the trip would be more useful than not. Moore turned to him.
“Would you coordinate the trip?”
“Of course,” he said, without hesitation.
Chapter 10
Howe bought the newspaper but found the classifieds useless for finding an apartment. The listings were sparse near NADT’s Virginia headquarters, and it occurred to Howe that he wasn’t even sure what he could afford. General Bonham had lived in a gated condo community with its own security people; did he need a place like that?
He decided he would ask around the NADT campus to see if anyone had any ideas, and a little past nine A.M. he was about a mile from NADT when he spotted a small real estate office set back on a hill off the county highway that led to the campus. The building itself was an old Victorian-style farmhouse similar to the one where his mother lived, though in much better shape. Howe pulled up the long, winding driveway and parked in the gravel lot off the macadam. Inside he found a receptionist who bore an uncanny resemblance to his hometown librarian, complete with pink-rimmed bifocals and tightly wound curls.
“Yes, dear?” asked the receptionist.
“I’m looking to rent either an apartment or a condo,” he said.
Before she could answer, the phone rang. Howe stepped back from the desk, his gaze wandering to the left side of the foyer. An old-fashioned steam radiator stood in front of the wainscoting, its thick gold paint glowing. The woodwork behind it had several sets of reveals as the panels stepped back to the wall. Whoever had restored the house had done a painstaking job; all of the original details shone through. Howe thought of his friend Jimmy’s business and felt a stab of guilt, as if his decision to take the NADT job meant he was letting him down.
“Are you being helped?”
Howe turned and found himself staring at a woman about thirty years old. She wore a black sleeveless top and a matching skirt that came nearly to her knees; her light-brown hair had a gentle wave in it as it fell just behind her shoulders. She had a few freckles on her face, which was one of those that seemed naturally inclined toward smiles rather than frowns. Her eyes were blue, and she raised the brows as she waited for him to answer the question.
Howe found himself suddenly tongue-tied.
“I, uh, I’m looking for an apartment or a condo, I guess. Something not that big.”
“Married?”
When Howe didn’t answer right away, the woman smiled and held her hand out to him. “I’m not trying to pick you up,” she told him. “Just find out how big a place you need.”