The Fourth War (9 page)

Andrews Air Force Base
Maryland

Dr. Thomas B. Washington was waiting for Colonel Bradley in the VIP lounge. The C-21 executive jet taxied to the front of the base-operations building and stopped, its red and white lights strobing the early morning darkness. Sunrise was still a half hour away, and the moon and the stars were blocked out by a thick bank of clouds, dark and rumbling and low to the ground. It was raining in the district, a constant and bone-chilling drizzle, and it caused a deep gloom to deepen the dark. A red path had been painted on the cement from the front door of the operations building to where the C-21 had come to a stop; a permanent red-carpet treatment for visiting dignitaries. An airman opened the small door of the C-21 as the aircraft came to a stop and Colonel Bradley, dressed now in air force blues, emerged and walked down the short steps. He held his briefcase over his head and walked briskly through the rain toward the operations building. The glass doors slid open as he approached. Washington was waiting there. He moved forward and took Bradley's hand in a crushing grip.

Washington was a huge man, with a bowling-pin torso, powerful walk, and a quick mind. He was as direct as a sledgehammer and impatient with time. Eighteen-hour days were the norm for him, and the early morning brief was not unusual, so he appeared showered and fresh and ready to go. Colonel Bradley, on the other hand, looked bone-tired and disheveled, having shaved and changed clothes in the cramped quarters of the small jet.

“You ready?” Washington asked as he shook the colonel's hand.

Bradley glanced at his watch. Just after six in the morning. “Seven o'clock briefing, right?” he replied.

Washington nodded.

“Have I got time?”

“No. I've got a driver waiting. We'll talk in the car.” The DDO turned and started to make his way through the operations building, glancing at Bradley's uniform as they walked. “I brought a clean shirt if you need it,” he said.

“I'm okay,” Bradley answered. “I had my bag on the plane.”

A young airman trotted into the foyer, carrying the worn leather suitcase he had pulled from the rear baggage compartment of the C-21. As the sliding glass doors opened, Bradley turned and nodded for him to follow, then continued to walk.

A shiny black SUV was waiting under the covered entrance out front, it's engine running, both back doors open, a driver behind the wheel, another agent waiting at the rear of the car. Bradley motioned toward the back of the heavy Suburban and the airman placed his suitcase inside. Turning, the young airman moved toward Colonel Bradley and asked, “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“Thank you, Airman Johnson,” Bradley said. “I appreciate your help.”

The airman stopped and saluted respectfully. “Anything at all?” He waited like a puppy, ready to jump at his command.

“No, thanks,” Bradley answered. “You always do good work.”

“Thank you, sir. It's always a pleasure to have you on board.” The airman moved toward the operations building, hesitated, then stopped and glanced back. “Sir, if I may?” he asked in a hesitant voice. Bradley nodded and he went on. “Something's going on, sir, I can see that in your face. Whatever you're involved with, I wish you good luck.”

Bradley nodded. “Thank you, Bobby,” he answered, “now get back to your jet.”

The airman saluted again, then trotted toward the building. Washington watched in silence. It was always the same. There was something about the colonel, he connected with his subordinates in a way that bred a loyalty that was both obvious and rare.

Washington and Bradley climbed into the back of the dark SUV. The driver and other agent sat in front, on the other side of a thick bulletproof and soundproof sheet of glass. The Suburban pulled away from the operations building and drove toward Andrews' front gate. Passing through the main gate, two police cars were waiting. They flipped on their lights as they fell into position, one ahead of the Chevy and one behind. Though it was still early morning, traffic into the district was already heavy and would only get worse. Hitting the on ramp, the cars were packed together, and the road ahead was a trail of flashing brake lights reflecting off the wet pavement. The caravan moved into the extreme left lane, the police lights flashing, the commuters moving out of its way.

Bradley settled back in the deep leather seat.

“You get any sleep on the way back?” Washington asked.

Bradley shook his head. “Too much to think about. Too much to do.”

Washington eyed his man closely. “You ever briefed POTUS before?” he asked.

“You know I haven't, Tom,” Bradley replied.

Washington shifted nervously. “Listen, Shane, I don't mean to state the obvious, but this is a whole different ball game, a whole different thing. To call this the World Series would be to understate things.”

Bradley raised an eyebrow to Washington. “Really?” he answered sarcastically. He was edgy with fatigue and it showed in his voice.

Washington watched him a moment. “You want some advice?” He then asked, “Or you want to do this alone?”

Bradley hunched his shoulders. “I'm sorry,” he answered. “It's been, you know, kind of a long flight. Kind of a long day.”

“I understand. Now listen to me. Don't waste his time. Get to the point. This is an informal briefing on our history with Donner, so there won't be anyone but you, me, the president, and Director Braun in the room. That will make the entire thing a bit easier; what you say won't be recorded, and no notes will be taken by White House staff. So relax, be direct, but answer only his questions, and don't offer any more.”

“He wants to know about Donner?”

“That's the whole reason we're going there.”

Bradley turned to look out the window as the SUV passed the slower cars. “He's not going to be happy with what we tell him, will he?”

Washington grunted and cleared his throat. “No, he probably won't.”

“I'm just guessing he isn't going to be in a good mood anyway.”

“From what I heard, I think not. His guns will be blazing. But remember, Colonel Bradley, if he shoots you down, it isn't personal. You've been thrown in the lions den because you're the first Christian we could find, so don't take it personal if he rips off your head. This whole thing about Donner, it isn't something you could control.”

“Don't shoot me, I'm just the messenger, right?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Bradley paused and thought. “If he asks me, am I free to answer? Can I say what I really think?”

Washington reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of gum. “Be careful. Be tactful. Show judgment. Beware. But no, I'm not going to script this for you. We're not going to be able to please him, we know that going in. There are just too many holes, too many things we don't know. So let's accept our beatings, tuck our tails, and get out of there. We've got a lot of work to do, and this thing with Donner is the least of our worries. We've got to answer his questions, but let's cut bait and run at the first chance we get.”

Bradley nodded sullenly. Washington reached into his briefcase and handed him a red-bound briefing folder. “I thought you might want to brush up on a few dates and such.”

Bradley glanced down at Donner's classified personnel folder that Washington had placed in his lap, then set it aside. “I don't need that,” he said.

Washington nodded. He knew that Bradley wouldn't. But he wanted to be sure.

 

Twenty minutes later the motorcade moved through security at the side gate of the White House. Ten minutes after that, after passing through three separate checkpoints, Dr. Washington and Colonel Bradley were waiting outside the Oval Office door.

Standing there, Bradley felt it and shivered. There was something special in the air. This was the
White House.
He took a deep breath, smelling the energy there. It was the first time in his life he felt the raw pulse of power. Supremacy. Dominance. Absolute control. The future of nations. The lives of countless men. All of it folded together inside these walls.

He shifted uncomfortably and Washington eyed him and smiled. “You can feel it, eh?”

Bradley didn't answer as he stared at the wall; a portrait of Ronald Reagan, blue suit, red tie, dark hair, head cocked, the crooked smile.

 

The two men waited patently. The president, as always, was running behind, and the two men stood quietly until Bradley leaned toward his boss. “I can't continue serving two masters,” he said.

Washington only grunted.

“If Donner follows the same pattern, this is the last we will hear of him in a very long while. It will probably be years—if we ever hear from him again. You don't need me now. I've done all I can.”

Washington stared at the blue wallpaper and grunted again.

“I need to get back, Tom. It's hard on the wing. It's hard on me when I'm away. I was just getting settled when Donner popped up again. Now I want to get back to my B-2s. I'm a good commander, sir, and it's what I love most. It's also where I can be most useful to you.”

Washington nodded slowly. “I know that,” he said.

“Then you are going to release me?”

Washington clenched his jaw. “That's my intention. But if Donner makes contact again, I won't hesitate to pull you back in to liaise with him.”

Bradley leaned back and nodded. It was all he could ask. A quick shiver of excitement ran through him. One White House meeting and he was back in the air.

The two men fell quiet again. Ten minutes later the wide door was thrown open and the President of the United States was standing there. Behind him, the CIA director stood near a white couch.

“Dr. Washington,” the president said as he shook Washington's hand. He then turned to face Bradley and the colonel took a step forward. The president was taller than he had expected, his face more lined, his hair a bit thinner, his eyes deeper blue. He was handsome and confident, and Bradley felt unexpectedly at ease. “Colonel, welcome to the White House,” the president said, sweeping his arm toward the Oval Office. “Come on, let's talk. There are a few things I'm anxious to have you tell me about.”

The four men sat in two identical white couches on opposite sides of a highly polished coffee table. Washington and Bradley sat next to each other, the president and CIA director opposite them. The president glanced at his watch and began, “I've got a national security staff briefing in fifty minutes. I need some time to get ready, so let's make this quick, if we can.”

Coffee had already been poured in four small china cups that were surrounded on a silver tray by warm Danish pastries, soft butter, and jam. The president lifted a half-full cup of coffee, his face friendly but intense.

Washington sat on the edge of the couch, his huge bottom hanging halfway over the edge. “Sir,” he answered simply. “What can we do for you?”

The president turned his attention to Bradley and got right to the point. “Tell me about Donner,” he said.

Bradley sat with his elbows on his knees, staring the president right in the eye. “Sir, Donner is a human asset we have inside the fundamentalist community.”

“You have an asset inside al Qaeda?” The president raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“Perhaps, sir. He might be. We really don't know.”

The president paused. “You don't know where he is?”

“The truth is, we don't know anything about him, Mr. President. We don't know who he is, what role he plays, or where he gets his information. All we know is he sends us warnings from time to time, gives us good information—intelligence that so far has proven to be very accurate. He'll make contact with us, hit us with intelligence, then drop off the radar, sometimes for a very long time. And we never know if or when he will pop up again. He's an anonymous phone call, an e-mail, an overnight express, nothing that can be traced, and believe me, we've tried. For good or bad, modern-day technology makes it easy, Mr. President, to communicate anonymously from the other side of the world.”

The president sat back and swore. “You're kidding me,” he said.

Washington, anxious to get into the conversation, shook his head and said, “No sir, we're not. But Donner has been very good, Mr. President. We can count no fewer then six occasions when he had provided warning of an impending attack. The attempted bombing in Riyadh, the attack against the U.S.S.
Vincent,
the enriched uranium from North Korea, all were incidents we were able to thwart because of information that Donner provided. He's the one who tipped us off regarding the security breaches at Guantanamo Bay. He has provided information on the location of al Qaeda agents inside Iran, as well as the mullahs who were protecting and financing them. His help has proven extremely valuable over the years. He has saved American lives, there is no doubt about that.” The president turned to the director, his eyebrow still raised. “He's been very valuable,” the director confirmed.

“Yet, you don't know who he is?”

“No, sir, we don't.”

He turned again to Bradley. “You've never met him?” he asked.

“No sir, I haven't. No one has ever met with him.”

“How do you contact him?”

“He makes contact with us.”

“Are you saying you have no means of initiating communication with him?”

Bradley hesitated, then answered, “That's correct, sir.”

The president sat back in the couch. “Let me see if I understand. You have an asset. He's somewhere inside the loosely knit band of terrorist brothers. He seems to be able to provide a wide range of information, from al Qaeda operatives to potential attacks against U.S. assets. But you don't really know where he operates. You don't know who he is. And you have no way to contact him? Have I missed anything, or is that about all?”