Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (11 page)

“And Bernsie, three is all we know about,” Mulligan argued. “There very well could be more. Trust me, Abdul Hassan was not in the United States for an interview at Columbia as he told the customs agent or a rock hound convention. But he was sure as shit here for a job. Something’s in the works.”

“Then what are they planning?” Bernsie asked.

Now Jack Evans spoke up. “In my estimation, he…they…are beyond the planning stage, Mr. President. The planning is over. They’re operational. They’re here because they’ve identified their target. We have to determine what that target is.”

“And since they could be anywhere…” Bernsie complained, “Where do we look?”

“Where it would make sense for a geologist to be.”

“The ground,” offered Norman Grigoryan, Homeland Security secretary. “Or under it.”

“Point well taken,” Evans answered. “We must ask what they asked themselves. Is the target worth the time, the expense, and the risk.”

“But?” Bernsie didn’t get his sentence out.

“Later,” the president whispered.

“There are principally six factors that a terrorist has to consider before selecting a final target,” Grigoryan explained. “Criticality, accessibility, recognizability, vulnerability, effect on national interests or the public welfare, and recoverability. You can remember that all by the acronym CARVER.”

“Carver?” Bernsie had never heard the term before.

“It was coined by Bill McCrory, former U.S. Army, counterintelligence, and U.S. Secret Service,” Grigoryan explained. I can explain them one by one if you’d like.”

“Jack, you want to take it?” Grigoryan said, turning the floor over to Director Evans.

“Criticality. By hitting the target, will it achieve the terrorists’ objective? Assuming that it’s to interrupt normal life, is it worth the trouble? Accessibility. Can the terrorist reach the target? Recognizability. Is the target recognizable once they have access to it? And conversely, is it something we may not recognize as a target? Or would we not recognize it from the air even if we’re directly overhead? Vulnerability. Is it vulnerable or too well protected? Effect on the country. What will the impact be? The political, economic, or even psych effects if the attack is successful. And finally, recoverability. This is the ultimate unknown. How long will it take for us to recover to an acceptable degree and at what cost? Taking 9/11 into account, it could be decades.”

Evans was finished. The room was stone cold. Even the president had never heard as clear a description of what a sophisticated terrorist must consider. It was chilling commentary.

“Well then,” Taylor said, “Since they didn’t come to the U.S. to be on
American Idol
, tell me what they are here for. They’re trained and they have special knowledge. Gentlemen, what’s their target?”

“Well, Mr. President, considering the fact that we have one dead geologist, I think we can safely narrow down the potential targets to a few hundred fault lines, a couple thousand dams and levees, and a volcano or two,” National Security Advisor General Jonas Jackson Johnson said more seriously than it sounded.

“Jesus!” Chief of Staff Bernstein muttered under his breath.

“Jesus is right,” the president solemnly added. “Take me through it, J3.”

“I’m not sure I can do any better than Jack. But I will add that the goal of a terrorist attack is to deny the use of an asset, be it civilian, government, or military,” the general said. He and the head of Homeland Security had weekly meetings about the dangers, covering everything from shopping centers, amusement parks, state capitols, and nuclear power plants. “But the goal might not be the destruction of a strategic asset, it could be to create civil havoc. Should a strategic asset go down? Well all the better in the terrorist’s mind.”

“Jack, Bob, Norman, and I are working with some forty security agencies to define and refine the possible target.”

“Or targets,” said FBI Chief Mulligan.

“Quite correct. Or targets, Mr. Director,” J3 agreed. “Anyone’s guess. Keep in mind attacks don’t have to achieve one hundred percent success to be effective. A threat, once made public, can produce its own devastating results. Primarily fear. And fear can lead to a disastrous drop in the stock market, unemployment, spiking oil prices, or even greedy sector profit taking.”

For a moment, the president flashed on his previous conversation with Bernsie about the stock market. Then it was gone.

“Something concrete, gentlemen,” Taylor said. “We have hundreds of earthquake fault lines, for example. Can these people set off explosions that would trigger, say, a major earthquake in Los Angeles or here? You know how the one in 2011 was so unsettling up and down the East Coast.”

“Unlikely. That would require strategically placed nuclear devices and sophisticated drilling. The risk-reward is too high. Too great a chance that they’d be discovered. I think that’s more of a plot out of science fiction. And if they have nuclear bombs, I think they’d go for a hard target.”

“Like Hoover Dam?” Bernsie asked.

Now General Johnson jumped back in. “Yes. We saw what Katrina did to New Orleans. Imagine simultaneous attacks up and down the Mississippi, Iowa, and along other rivers with levees, locks, and dams.”

“We should look at every major city that sits down river of a dam,” Bernsie stated.

“We do,” said Norman Grigoryan. “Every day. And not just because of this alert. In the twentieth century, levees failed more than 140 times. They’re an aging system. Ones built and inspected by the Army Corps of Engineers may be more reliable than those locally constructed and maintained. But they’re all on our scope.

“For example, in Northern California there’s the Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta. It’s not all that different than New Orleans,” Grigoryan explained. “Levee breaks there could seriously affect the water supply for twenty-two million Californians. Right where those rivers meet and dump into San Francisco Bay. I’m sure you won’t remember, but in 1997, one hundred thousand people were evacuated when fifty California levees broke. Twenty-four thousand homes were destroyed. Eight people were killed.”

“So it’s a likely target.” Bernsie pointedly said.

“Only if it’s one of many. Not on its own. More likely, The Tennessee Valley Authority. TVA alone controls thirty-two major dams. More that are smaller. The good news is that the larger dams, one hundred fifty feet plus, can likely hold unless hit by a small nuclear device. They are also the best protected in the country. The small ones are where the real danger resides. Soon we’ll see winter snowmelts, and according to the computer models, we can expect heavier than normal rains in the Midwest this spring. The levees should be considered a prime target. The downstream death toll would be very high.”

“And its impact on the greater society?” Taylor asked rhetorically. They all knew the answer. Devastating.

“What other likely targets?” Bernsie wondered.

“Sewage treatment plants,” continued National Security Advisor General Johnson.

The men reacted predictably to the thought of massive sewage spills.

“No joke. If sabotaged, sewage could seep into groundwater aquifers and pollute fresh water supplies for a
long
time.” He stretched out the word for maximum impact.

“Seems like it’s a lot of work,” Mulligan offered. “Wouldn’t be my choice of a target.”

J3 nodded affirmatively.

“Airports and shipping ports?” asked Bernsie.

“Viable targets, but I wouldn’t send geologists, biologists, or chemists to take out those targets.

“Then what about power lines? The big ones?”

“Same, Bernsie. We need to stick with strategic targets that are in our terrorists’ wheelhouse. If customs and border had taken down a munitions expert, then this conversation would be a whole helluva lot different. These people are here to deny us the use of something we need. I believe the end game is much greater than the attacks themselves.”

“And what is that?” Morgan Taylor stood up and looked out the window overlooking the Rose Garden.

“Over the last eighteen months, the presidency itself has been assailed. First through the election process, second through the media. I think the target hasn’t changed,” General Johnson charged.

Taylor bowed his head. “It’s all about faith in the government. Destroy that faith and you destroy
everything
America stands for and what we represent to the rest of the world.”

“Exactly, Mr. President.” J3 now addressed him more as the Commander-in-Chief. “I believe they want to create the kind of havoc that will make a typical natural disaster look like a walk in the park…a crisis on such a grand scale that FEMA, the National Guard, and local authorities together couldn’t begin to contain. If that happens, the gangs and the private militias take over. God help us if that day comes.”

The thought stung everyone.

The meeting broke up. Everyone had an assignment. As the room cleared, Morgan Taylor tapped General Johnson on the shoulder. “Stay for a few more minutes, will you?”

“Sure, Mr. President.” He knew not to ask why.

Bernstein politely ushered the FBI director, the director of National Intelligence, and the secretary of Homeland Security out, then returned to the Oval Office. He took a seat next to the president. The couch remained open for J3. He didn’t wait for an invitation to sit. Morgan Taylor had something on his mind.

“General.”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

Congressman Duke Patrick’s office

The Rayburn Building

Christine Slocum was surfing the net, looking for breaking stories that the Speaker could comment on. Since she was Duke Patrick’s new principal speechwriter, she helped create media opportunities for him in print, on air, and via social media.

Slocum, a drop-dead beauty with long straight blonde locks usually tucked up in a conservative bun, was careful when and where she let her hair down. She did it with the last Democratic presidential candidate in the privacy of his hotel rooms. A little over a year ago, she wrote for Congressman Teddy Lodge and slept with him. She was very, very good at both.

She was a true political predator. Sexy, powerful, tremendously capable, cold, ruthless, and wild in bed. She had no aspirations to emerge from behind-the-scenes, but she was groomed to rise to the top. Groomed by a man she never met, but who made all the right doors swing open for her and provided enough money to retire for life at thirty. The problem, unknown to her, was that most people who came in contact with this man never lived to fulfill their dreams. Only his.

After an hour, she checked her e-mail. There were notices about committee hearings, opinions on bills, editorials and op eds from a dozen newspapers, a few press inquiries, and a heads-up about an eBay sale she might be interested in.

After she worked her way through the work correspondence she opened the eBay listing. Slocum collected Beatles memorabilia. Apparently there was something special coming online she might want. On the surface, the alert was for low numbered tickets from the Beatles Shea Stadium concert. But it actually gave her more specific information which pleased her a great deal.

The White House

Roarke’s basement office

Roarke reached for the phone. Penny Walker’s number at the Pentagon came up on the caller ID.

“Whatcha get?” he asked.

“No hello, just what did I get?”

“I’m impatient.”

“Impatient was one thing you never were,” she giggled. “But you did give me up too fast.”

“My bad. But enough of memory lane. What road are you going down today?” Roarke leaned forward ready to take notes

“Remember Rockport, Massachusetts?”

“Memory lane again.”

“You’re lucky I remember it, sweetheart, because that’s the only reason I pinged on Charles Messinger.”

“Who?”

“One of your dead guys,” she explained. “Car accident driving home from a business luncheon in Rockport.”

“So?”

“So a healthy guy just drives into the Atlantic?”

“It happens,” Roarke said.

“Yeah. Sure it does. And who cares, except his wife. But you should care, Mr. Roarke. You should care because Charles V. Messinger was a colonel in the U.S. Army. One of the people who served under him was a lieutenant.” She paused to make sure Roarke followed her. “A certain Lieutenant Richard Cooper.”

“Oh, my God!” Roarke exclaimed. His nagging feeling returned. “How did you say Messinger died?”

“He drove into the drink. Possible heart failure.”

“Ten to one it wasn’t.”

“We’re going to have to prove that.”

“Can you send…” Roarke didn’t have to complete the sentence.

“I already called in an army medical team to examine the body. He’s not scheduled for burial for another two days.”

“What about this business meeting. Who was it with?”

“You’re right on the ball, Sherlock. I’m checking that out. According to his office, there was a French businessman on his calendar. A Monsieur Peter Le Strand.”

“Who I bet doesn’t exist,” Roarke concluded.

“So far.”

“Penny, I love you.”

“No you don’t. If you loved me, you’d still be fucking me. You sure can’t live without me, though.”

Roarke had to agree.

“There’s more,” Walker said.

“I can’t even imagine,” Roarke answered.

“Messinger was about middle in the chain of command in Iraq the day that Cooper was ordered to take the building. Wanna hear about what happened to some of the others?”

Roarke wrote everything down. She told him about LT Don Nicholson, who died in a small airplane crash; Major Gerald Fox, dead rappelling off a cliff. Walker went through the untimely demise of two sergeants, one named Riverton, another Sandeman. And a judge in Minneapolis yesterday. Also U.S. Army retired.

“He was in court when he collapsed. I talked to the clerk myself. She said he was trying to write something down. He got as far as three letters. She has no idea what they refer to. Want to know what they were?”

“Yes?” Roarke begged.

“Three little letters. A
C
, an
O
, and another
O
. Then the judge lost consciousness.”