6
They rolled into the security checkpoint for the West Wing of the White House, the granite monolith of the Old Executive Office Building off to the left. Alexander Palmer, the president’s national security advisor—one of about a dozen read onto the Taskforce—had been promising for years to get the Oversight Council a permanent home, but so far the Council members still trekked inside the same building like a multitude of other government employees. It made Kurt skittish, because sooner or later someone was going to ask what the hell the top secret meetings were about. All it would take was one NSC staffer to speculate, and The Washington Post would go into a frenzy.
Trudging up the stairs, Kurt began to rehearse what he was going to say. George had said Kurt was na?ve to the ways inside the Beltway, but that wasn’t the case. He understood completely what he was facing, including who was an ally and who was an enemy. He needed to massage both.
They reached the conference room and Kurt saw no Secret Service. Which meant no President Warren, the biggest gun who could help. George stopped, his hand on the door. “Last chance. I have that offer to open a yogurt shop. You want in?”
Kurt grimaced and said, “Sharks aren’t out yet. Let me chum the waters before I give you an answer.”
George swung the door open, and Kurt saw bedlam.
Everyone in the room was waving their arms or talking over one another. Usually, the Council was sitting still when he entered, like Supreme Court justices about to hear an argument before them. Handpicked by the president of the United States, they were all members of the executive branch or private citizens. By design, none were in the legislative branch, in order to allow a calm, unbiased analysis of the potential fallout of Taskforce actions, free from competing political pressures. And usually they were calm, but what Kurt saw looked like a couple of cliques at a junior high yelling at each other.
He moved to the podium unnoticed, laying his computer on the desk next to it. He plugged it into the Proxima projector and looked for Alexander Palmer, the man who chaired the meetings in the absence of the president. He saw a heated argument between Mark Oglethorpe, the secretary of defense, and Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, but no Palmer.
The conference room door opened and Palmer entered, followed by another man, a youngish-looking bureaucrat who appeared as scared as a rabbit cornered by a pack of wolves. The man moved to the front of the room, unplugged Kurt’s laptop, and plugged in his own. Palmer walked to Kurt.
“Hey, plans have changed. We aren’t going to hear about Pike’s status today. He’s inactive indefinitely.”
“What’s going on?”
“You heard about the missing military folks, right? This NSC staffer has the latest information.”
“How is that Taskforce business? Who gives a shit? I’m not going to let Pike rot because of some political crap.”
Palmer scowled at Kurt’s nonchalant attitude and said, “Everyone gives a shit. Pike’s done for now. Take a seat.”
Surprised at the ferocity of the reproach, Kurt nodded and joined George at the back of the room. The staffer turned on the projector and the room became silent. He waited a bit until the bulb settled and the computer had a signal, then cleared his throat, studiously avoiding the secretary of defense’s eyes. Palmer said, “Get it going. Give them the damage.”
The man cleared his throat again and said, “Gentlemen, it appears that our initial fears have been realized. This is not a coincidence or a random act. An organization has targeted military relatives of key members of the United States government. Currently, we know this.”
He clicked a slide, and Kurt grew cold at the two headings.
KIA:
Staff Sergeant Bryan Cransfield, Fort Bragg, North Carolina, nephew of Representative Duncan Cransfield, ranking member of the House Armed Services Committee
MIA:
Lieutenant Colonel Travis Deleon, Brussels, Belgium, husband of Rachel Deleon, Governor of Texas
Captain McKinley Clute and Lieutenant Kaelyn Clute, Okinawa, Japan, son and daughter of Easton Beau Clute, Chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence
Airman First Class Curtis Oglethorpe, Soto Cano Air Base, Honduras, son of Mark Oglethorpe, Secretary of Defense
Next to each bullet was a picture of the missing person. Kurt saw the last name and picture, a smiling man in Air Force camouflage, and understood why the SECDEF had been so agitated when he’d entered. He caught George’s eye but said nothing.
Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, said, “So the vice president’s son is okay? That was bad intelligence?”
Palmer said, “Unfortunately, no. That information is close-hold, so much so that nothing is being put on hard copy or electrons. Nick was an analyst at the NATO Intelligence Fusion Centre at RAF Molesworth, England.” He paused for a moment, going eye to eye with the men in the room, then said, “He’s missing as well, and if that leaks, I swear I’m going to cut someone’s nuts off.”
The D/CIA brushed aside the threat and said, “The NIFC? What did he do there?” He pronounced it Nif-See.
Billings said, “What’s the NIFC?”
“It’s the intelligence hub for NATO. They’re responsible for all operational targeting, both possible and actual.”
Palmer said, “He’s an Air Force weatherman. He provided predictive analysis for operations.”
“Shit. So he was read onto ongoing and planned missions?”
“Yes. I guess.”
“Well then, his being the vice president’s son may not be the worst of this. He’s like the guy in the mail room who knows everything going on in the corporation. He’s potentially got information in his head that could damage current operations worldwide, from Afghanistan to the Ukraine.” He leaned back into his chair and said, “What’s in that man’s head may be more important than who his father is.”