The Paris Option - Страница 48

"Almost nothing new in Europe, Mr. President," General Henze reported. His voice was resolute, but the president heard an undertow of anger as well. "There hasn't been a single breakdown or interruption anywhere on the continent for more than twenty-four hours."

The president decided to ignore the anger for the time being. "A bleak ray of sunshine, but at least it's something. What about locating the terrorists?"

"Again nothing so far." Henze hesitated. "May I be frank, sir?"

"I insist on it. What's the problem, Carlos?"

"I had a meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith the army doctor you sent over to handle the search. He wasn't reassuring. He's shooting in the dark, Mr. President. Not only does he suspect that a trusted aide to General La Porte is mixed up with the crazies, he flat out said even I wasn't above suspicion. In short, he knows damn little."

Inwardly, the president sighed. "It seems to me his progress has been impressive."

"He's dug up a lot. That's true, but I don't see he's any closer to the damned dingus. I think he's spinning his turbans. Shooting off half-cocked, and I'm damned concerned. Shouldn't we put everything we have on this, not just one lone man, no matter how good he may be?"

From the sound of it, the president decided, the general would be a lot happier sending the entire 82nd Airborne and all of the 1st Air Cav to search the Middle East, house-to-house, for the terrorists. Of course, the downside of that could be World War III, but the general had not thought that far ahead.

"I'll take your thoughts and objections under advisement, General, with my thanks," the president told him. "If I decide to change horses, I'll let you know. But don't forget Langley's on the job, too, as is MI6."

There was stony silence. Then: "Yes, sir. Of course."

The president nodded to himself. The general would toe the line for a while at least. "Continue to keep me informed. Thank you, Carlos."

After he hung up, President Castilla hunched his big shoulders, dropped his chin onto his tented fingers, and peered through his titanium glasses outdoors into the relentless morning storm. The sky was so dismal and gray with rain he could not see beyond the Rose Garden, which did not improve his frame of mind. He was more than uneasy himself, even scared, that Covert-One had not found the molecular computer.

But he could not let his misgivings show, at least not yet. He turned to focus on the advisers and military leaders who were seated on the chairs and sofa and standing against the mantel, waiting. His gaze lowered to linger on the Great Seal of the United States that was woven into the carpet in the middle of the group, and he told himself the United States of America was not beaten yet, and it would not be beaten.

He said calmly, "As you heard, that was General Henze from NATO. Everything's been quiet over there, too. No attack for twenty-four hours."

"I don't like it," Chief of Staff Charles Ouray said. "Why would the people with the DNA computer stop harassing us now? Threatening us? Do they have all they wanted?" In his early sixties, he had an almost lineless, triangular face and a low, gruff voice. He crossed his arms and frowned. "I seriously doubt it."

"Or perhaps our countermeasures are stopping them," National Security Adviser Powell-Hill suggested hopefully. Slender, businesslike, and no-nonsense as usual, she was immaculately turned out, this time in a Donna Karan suit. "With luck, all the backup systems we've brought online have stumped them."

Lieutenant General Ivan Guerrero, army chief of staff, leaned forward and nodded in vigorous agreement. His square-fingered hands were clasped between his knees, and he looked up and around at the group, studying them with a cool, calculating gaze that was more than confident, it radiated the certainty that was too-often prized over intellect in military command. "We've got our backups installed down to the onboard targeting systems in our tanks. I think we've outwitted the bastards, whoever the hell they are, and their diabolical molecular computer."

"I agree," Air Force General Bruce Kelly said from where he stood beside the fireplace. His florid face was firm as he looked at General Guerrero and then at the others. Although he enjoyed his liquor perhaps too much, he also was shrewd and tireless in the pursuit of a goal.

The marine chief, Lieutenant General Clason Oda, who had just recently risen to his position and was still in a honeymoon of popularity, chimed in with his confidence that the countermeasures had worked and stymied the terrorists. "Good old-fashioned American know-how at work," he concluded, beaming at the clich.

As his people continued to discuss backup systems, President Castilla listened without joining in, hearing both the voices and the rain outside, drumming an ominous counterpoint to their optimism.

When their discussion ended, Castilla cleared his throat. "Your efforts and thoughts are encouraging, ladies and gentlemen. Still, I must offer another explanation, one which you won't like but that we must pay attention to. Our intelligence sources overseas have suggested an entirely different scenario. They believe that rather than our defenses beating off cyber attacks over the last day, there have simply been no attacks."

Admiral Brose, the Joint Chiefs' chairman, frowned. "What does that signify to you, Mr. President? That they've backed off? They've made their point and are going back into their holes?"

"I wish it did, Stevens. I truly wish it did. But no. One part of the explanation may be some most welcome successes by our intelligence people themselves. I'm glad to report we now know the name of the group that has the DNA computer. It's the Crescent Shield. Our people may have delayed their plans."

"The Crescent Shield?" NSA Powell-Hill said. "I've never heard of them. Arabs?"

The president shook his head. "Pan-Islamic. No one has heard of them. They appear new, although with many veteran leaders and players."

"What's the second part of the explanation for their inaction, sir?" Admiral Brose asked.

The president's expression grew more sober. "That they need no more practice. They've tested all they're going to, because they've learned whatever it was they wanted to learn about their system and about us. They've also put us out of business, since we're scrambling to put alternate programs into place. In fact, they likely have accomplished exactly what they set out to do by this point. My guess is they're ready to act. This is the quiet before the killer storm, lulling us before they launch some deadly strike or strikes, God help us at our people."

"When?" Admiral Brose wanted to know.

"Probably within the next eight to forty-eight hours."

The silence was long and tense. No one made eye contact.

At last, Admiral Brose admitted, "I see your logic, sir. What do you suggest?"

The president said forcefully, "That we return to our posts and go the limit. Nothing held back. Not even the most experimental and even potentially dangerous new defense systems. We have to be prepared to stop anything they throw at us, from bacteria to a nuclear bomb."

Emily Powell-Hill's perfect eyebrows shot up. "With all due respect, sir," she protested, "these are terrorists, not global nuclear powers. I doubt they can inflict anywhere near all that."

"Really, Emily? Are you willing to stake the lives of possibly millions of Americans on that as well as you and your family's lives?"

"Yes. I am, sir," she said stubbornly.

The president tented his fingers again, rested his heavy chin on the tips, and smiled a quiet but thin smile. "Brave woman, and brave security adviser. I made a good choice. But I'm the president, Emily, and I don't have the luxury of blind courage or of rolling the dice. The potential costs are simply too high." His gaze swept the room, including all of them, no matter the differences of opinion. "It's our country, and we're all in this together. We've got the burden, but we also have some opportunities here to defend and fight back. We'd be irresponsible and mule-stupid to do less than everything we can. Now, let's go to work."

As they filed out, already discussing the steps they would take, Admiral Brose stayed behind. Once the door was closed, he spoke wearily across the room: "The media's getting suspicious, Sam. There've been leaks, and they're sniffing around hard. With the possibility of an imminent strike, shouldn't we have the press in and start briefing them? If you want, I can do it. That way you can keep out of it. You know the drill — 'an informed government source.' We can test the public's response, and prepare them for the worst, too, which isn't a bad idea."

The admiral studied the president, who suddenly looked as exhausted as the admiral felt. The president's broad shoulders were slumped, and jowls seemed to have come from nowhere to age his face ten years. Worried not only about the future but about his leader, Stevens Brose waited for an answer.

Sam Castilla shook his head. "Not yet. Give me another day. Then we'll have to do it. I don't want to start a panic. At least not yet."

"I understand. Thank you for hearing us out, Mr. President."

"You're welcome, Admiral."

Looking doubtful, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs opened the door and left. As soon as President Castilla was alone, he stood up behind his pine-table desk and paced. Outside on the colonnade, a Secret Service sentry gazed back once, his attention attracted by the movement. As soon as he saw that there was no danger, his gaze swept back over the White House grounds and the rainy sky above.