The victims were mostly in local hospitals, and those who could speak were interviewed that evening to ascertain what they knew or could remember. Bullets from their bodies were taken for evidence and would be matched with the weapons seized and taken to northern Virginia, site of the brand-new FBI Laboratory, for testing and analysis. All of this information went to the Department of Homeland Security, which, of course, forwarded every bit of it to CIA, NSA, and the rest of the American intelligence community, whose field intelligence officers were already pinging their agents for any relevant information. The spooks also queried those foreign intelligence services thought to be friendly—this was an exaggeration in most cases, of course—for feedback and information relating to the case. All of the information thus gleaned came to The Campus via the CIA/NSA link. All of the data intercepted found its way to The Campus’s enormous central computer room in the basement, where it was classified as to type and set up for the analysts who’d arrive in the morning.
UPSTAIRS, everyone had gone home for the night, except for the security staff and those who cleaned up after every day. The workstations used by the analysis staff were protected in several ways to make sure they could not be turned on without authorization. Security was tight there, but it was kept low-key, the better to maintain it, and monitored by closed-circuit television cameras whose “take” was always under electronic and human scrutiny.
IN HIS apartment, Jack thought about calling his father, but decided not to. He was probably getting bombarded by TV and print newsies, despite his well-known practice of saying nothing about anything in order to give the sitting President, Edward Kealty, free rein. There was a secure and very private line that only the kids knew about, but Jack decided to leave that one to Sally, who was a little more excitable than he was. Jack let it go with sending his dad an e-mail that essentially said What the hell and I sure wish you were still in the White House. But he knew that Jack Sr. was most likely thanking God that he wasn’t, maybe even hoping that Kealty would listen to his advisers for a change—what good ones he had—and think before acting. His father probably had called some friends abroad to find out what they knew and thought, and maybe passed on some high-level opinions, since foreign governments mostly listened to what he had to say, quietly, in private rooms. Big Jack was still somewhat inside the system. He could call friends left over from his presidency to find out what was really going on. But Jack didn’t think that one all the way through.
HENDLEY HAD a secure telephone in his office and at his home, called a STU-5, a brand-new product of AT&T and NSA. It had come to him through irregular means.
He was on it at that moment.
“Yes, that’s right. We’ll have the feed tomorrow morning. Not much point in sitting in the office and staring at a mostly blank screen right now,” the former senator said reasonably, sipping at his bourbon and soda. Then he listened to the following inquiry.
“Probably,” he responded to a rather obvious question. “But nothing ‘hard’ yet . . . about what you’d expect at this point, yes.”
Another lengthy question.
“We have two guys right now, just about ready . . . Yes, we do—about four of them. We’re taking a close look at them right now—tomorrow, that is. Jerry Rounds is thinking hard on the subject, along with Tom Davis—that’s right, you don’t know him, do you? Black guy, from other side of the river, both parts of the building. He’s pretty smart, has a good feel for financial stuff, and also the operational side. Surprising that you never crossed paths with him. Sam? He’s hot to trot—believe it. The trick is picking the right targets . . . I know, you can’t be a part of that. Please pardon my calling them ‘targets.'”
A lengthy monologue, plus a tag question.
“Yes, I know. That’s why we’re here. Soon, Jack. Soon . . . Thanks, buddy. You, too. See ya sometime.” And he hung up, knowing that he wouldn’t actually be seeing his friend anytime soon . . . maybe never again in person. And that was a goddamned shame. There weren’t many people who understood things like this, and more was the pity. One more call to make, and this on a regular phone.
CALLER ID told Granger who it was before he picked up.
“Yeah, Gerry?”
“Sam, those two recruits. You sure they’re ready to play in the bigs?”
“Ready as they need to be,” the chief of operations assured his boss.
“Get ’em up here for lunch. You, me, them, and Jerry Rounds.”
“I’ll call Pete first thing in the morning.” No sense doing it right away. It was barely a two-hour drive, after all.
“Good. You have any misgivings?”
“Gerry, the proof of the pudding, you know? We have to see sooner or later.”
“Yeah, right. See you tomorrow”
“‘Night, Gerry.” Granger hung the phone back up and went back to his book.
THE MORNING news was particularly sensational all over America—all over the world, for that matter. The satellite feeds from CNN, FOX, MSNBC, and every other agency that owned TV cameras and an uplink truck provided the world with a lead story that could not be buried by anything less than a nuclear detonation. The European papers expressed ritual sympathy with America for its newest travail—soon to be forgotten and retracted, in effect if not in particulars. The American news media talked about how frightened American citizens were. Not with any poll numbers to back it up, of course, but across the country citizens were suddenly buying firearms for their own personal protection, which purpose would not be served well, or at all. Police knew without being told to take a close look at anyone who might have come from a country east of Israel, and if some dumbass lawyers called that ethnic profiling, then to hell with him. The crimes of the previous day had not been committed by a tour group from Norway.
Church attendance was up, a little.
All across America, people went to work and did their jobs, with a “What do you think of all this?” aimed at co-workers, who invariably shook their heads and went back to the business of making steel, automobiles, or delivering the mail. They were not terribly fearful, in fact, because even with four such incidents, it had all happened far from where most of them lived, and such events happened very rarely, and not enough to be a seriously personal threat. But all the working men in the country knew in their hearts that somebody, somewhere, really needed to have his ass kicked.
Twelve miles away, Gerry Hendley saw his papers—the New York Times was delivered by special messenger, while the Washington Post had arrived by a normal pickup truck. In both cases, the editorials could have been written by the same clone, urging calm and circumspection, noting that the country had a President to react to these dreadful events, and calmly instructing the President to think before acting. The Op-Ed pieces were somewhat more interesting. Some columnists actually reflected the average citizen. There would be a national cry for vengeance on this day, and for Hendley the good news was that he might just be able to respond to it. The bad news was that no one would ever know, if he did it right.
All in all, this Saturday would not be a slow news day.
And The Campus’s parking lot would be full, which would escape the notice of those who drove past the place. The cover story, if one were needed, was that the four massacres of the previous day had caused some instability in the financial markets—which, it turned out later in the day, was true.
Jack Jr. correctly assumed it would be a casual-dress day, and drove his Hummer 2 into work wearing jeans, a pullover shirt, and sneaks. The security people were fully uniformed, of course, and as stone-faced as ever.
Tony Wills was just lighting up his computer when Jack came in at 8:14.
“Hey, Tony,” the young Ryan said in greeting. “What’s the traffic like?”
“See for yourself. They’re not asleep,” Wills told his trainee.
“Roger that” He set down his coffee on the desk and slid into his comfortable swivel chair before lighting up his computer and getting through the security systems that protected what was on it. The morning “take” from NSA—that outfit never slept. And it was immediately clear that the people he kept track of paid attention to the news.
It was to be expected that the people in whom NSA had so much interest were not friends of the United States of America, but, even so, Jack Jr. was surprised—even shocked—by the content of some of the e-mails he read. He remembered his own feelings when the United States Army had charged into Saudi Arabia after the forces of the now defunct United Islamic Republic, and the rush of satisfaction when he’d seen a tank explode from direct fire. He hadn’t thought for a moment about the three men who’d just perished within their steel tomb, rationalizing that they had taken up arms against America, and that was something that bore a price, a wager of sorts, and if the coin came up tails, well, that was why they called it gambling. Partly that had been his youth, since for a child everything seems directed to him as the center of the known universe, an illusion that takes time to discard. But for the most part the people killed the day before had been innocent civilians, noncombatants, mostly women and children, and to take pleasure in their deaths was just plain barbarism. But here it was. Twice now, America had expended blood to save the mother country of Islam, and some Saudis were talking like this?