A Time for War by Michael Savage Page B

had called Max and she had biked to the site with one of her smaller digital cameras on her back, in case the police were going to block car traffic. Max’s footage of the aftermath would bracket the cell phone footage Jack had taken.
    After a few hours of sleep, Jack got out of bed shortly before six A.M. to look at footage on his computer and mark a few edits for Max. The phone beeped while he was making coffee. Caller ID showed a 240 area code. He had no idea where that was or who “Dover Griffith” might be. He let it go to voice mail and went back to the edits.
    Max was one of the new generation of photographers. To her, everything about the medium— hell, everything about the world, Jack thought—was digital. Instant, disposable, fixable. He missed the days of watching film and, later, video on a machine built for that purpose. The sense of anticipation, waiting to see if you had captured the experience in a brief bit of footage or a still image, if your eye had found something in a moment that you had missed in the mad flow of events.
    He finished his video notes, sickened by the high-definition video Max had recorded. Her zoom had found powerful images in the inferno that he had missed. Dolls and books. Immolated chopsticks. A medical school diploma. Jack wondered about the Hui Chinese doctor who had sat next to them at Bruno’s that morning. His shift probably hadn’t ended by the time the bomb exploded. He was probably dead.
    Jack rubbed his temples, then went to the galley to pour himself a cup of coffee. He had walked and fed Eddie and made coffee when he got up but as usual, he got immersed in what he was doing and forgot to drink it. He made himself a tuna sandwich while he was up and as his bagel toasted he listened to the message from Dover Griffith.
    â€œI hope I have the right Jack Hatfield,” the caller said. “I, uh—I work for the government and I’m looking into something you reported about on Truth Tellers a few years back. If you could call me, I’d like to tell you a little more and get your thoughts. Thank you. ’Bye.”
    Jack sat at the table with his breakfast, scrolled to the number, and pushed the call button. Griffith picked up on the second ring.
    â€œMr. Hatfield—thanks so much for calling back! Hope I didn’t wake you.”
    â€œNo,” Jack said. “I was up. Who are you and what can I do for you?”
    â€œOff the record?”
    â€œOK.” It was amazing to Jack that a reporter’s “OK” in that regard was taken as an oath. He didn’t know any other profession outside of being a mobster where the handshake rule applied.
    â€œI’m an analyst with the Office of Naval Intelligence,” Griffith said, “and I want to talk about Squarebeam technology.”
    Jack didn’t know if she had paused for dramatic effect, but the result was the same: letting the words hang there brought back all kinds of unpleasant thoughts for Jack. There were smugly reassuring sound bites from that patronizing autocrat Richard Hawke, interviews with fighter pilots whose controls went AWOL when they passed through the unfriendly Squarebeam skies, and scientists who warned that the technology was cutting edge of the wrong kind: one had described it as a technological headsman’s axe.
    â€œThere’s a subject that doesn’t send a thrill up my leg,” Jack said.
    â€œI know and I’m sorry, but it may be like one of those mutant cockroaches that adapts to the latest formula of bug killer.”
    Jack liked the metaphor. Griffith had bought herself some more time. “Go ahead,” Jack said.
    â€œTwo complete, apparently targeted electronic system collapses on different days, different parts of the globe,” Griffith said.
    â€œWhat’s the second?” Jack asked. He didn’t have to ask about one of them. The woman was ONI. It was probably the SEALs Chinook in