from the patriotic souls who first used the bunker during the Cuban missile crisis.
Walt Jackson stood at the podium, his massive frame looming over the seventy-five FBI agents seated in front of him. Behind him stood the Director of the CIA and next to him, drawing the attention of every man and woman in the room, sat a telephone with one line conspicuously blinking. Nick sat in the front row next to Matt.
Jackson pushed the blinking button activating the speakerphone. “Mr. President?”
The unmistakable voice of the President John Merrick said, “Yes, Walt, I’m here.”
“Mr. President,” Jackson turned to make eye contact with the Director of the CIA, “I have Ken Morris with me. We’re all assembled, Sir.”
“Good,” said President Merrick. “Gentlemen, and, of course, ladies—Senator Williams was a close personal friend of mine. Some of you may know he was the best man at my wedding.” He sighed. Everyone sat at attention and listened as if the principal was addressing his students.
“Unfortunately, he was only one of fifty families that are grieving this morning as a result of the brutal attack on our nation.
“We received an E-mail from the Kurdish Security Force. Walt, I know your people follow this stuff closely, so the message won’t come as a shock. They will bomb one home in each of the fifty states every week that we don’t withdraw our troops from Turkey. The same message was sent to the Washington Post. The American people are going to know of their demands. It’s a shrewd tactic, folks. The occupation of Turkey wasn’t popular to begin with. Now it appears as if it will cost innocent citizens their lives if we don’t cave in.”
The President’s voice grew harsh, “Walt, you know damn well I can’t withdraw our troops under these conditions. Our presence was mandated once the Kurds began slaughtering hundreds of Turkish civilians. I know I don’t have to sell you on my decision, but now every time an American is killed, it’s my fault. I’ll accept the responsibility, but I need answers and I need plausible options and I need them quick.”
President Merrick stopped abruptly and it seemed to take Jackson by surprise, as if he expected the longwinded political statement that usually came from a White House conference call.
“Walt?”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. President.”
“Walt, how many KSF do we have in custody now?”
“As of thirty minutes ago we have nine, Sir.”
“Nine KSF members—how many do you suspect are directly or indirectly related to the bombings?
“All of them.”
“That’s good. What have we learned from them?”
The assemblage of agents knew the answer before it ever left Jackson’s mouth.
“Nothing, Sir.”
“Nothing?”
“No, Sir, they’d rather die first. As a matter of fact two of them have attempted suicide.”
“I see.” In the silence a deep breath could be heard.
Ken Morris stepped closer to the speakerphone. “Mr. President, this is Ken.”
“Yes, Ken,” the frustrated voice said.
“Sir, this is similar to stomping on roaches as they crawl across the floor. We can’t protect every citizen in the country. We have to find the source. That’s the only way we’ll put an end to it. The scheme is too elaborate not to have a leader dictating the details of the mission.”
“And you’re sure who that leader is?”
“Yes, Sir. It’s Kemel Kharrazi. We find him and we can end the terrorist acts.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t we found him yet?”
“Sir . . . uh, there are some leads, but—“
“Ken, we have satellites circling the Earth that could read the date on a dime sitting in the road between two parked cars. Are you telling me we can’t find the most infamous terrorist in the world, in our own backyard?”
Ken opened his mouth, but only to take a large breath.
The President exploded. “Gentlemen, I want Kemel Kharrazi’s picture on every television, every newspaper, every
Walt Jackson stood at the podium, his massive frame looming over the seventy-five FBI agents seated in front of him. Behind him stood the Director of the CIA and next to him, drawing the attention of every man and woman in the room, sat a telephone with one line conspicuously blinking. Nick sat in the front row next to Matt.
Jackson pushed the blinking button activating the speakerphone. “Mr. President?”
The unmistakable voice of the President John Merrick said, “Yes, Walt, I’m here.”
“Mr. President,” Jackson turned to make eye contact with the Director of the CIA, “I have Ken Morris with me. We’re all assembled, Sir.”
“Good,” said President Merrick. “Gentlemen, and, of course, ladies—Senator Williams was a close personal friend of mine. Some of you may know he was the best man at my wedding.” He sighed. Everyone sat at attention and listened as if the principal was addressing his students.
“Unfortunately, he was only one of fifty families that are grieving this morning as a result of the brutal attack on our nation.
“We received an E-mail from the Kurdish Security Force. Walt, I know your people follow this stuff closely, so the message won’t come as a shock. They will bomb one home in each of the fifty states every week that we don’t withdraw our troops from Turkey. The same message was sent to the Washington Post. The American people are going to know of their demands. It’s a shrewd tactic, folks. The occupation of Turkey wasn’t popular to begin with. Now it appears as if it will cost innocent citizens their lives if we don’t cave in.”
The President’s voice grew harsh, “Walt, you know damn well I can’t withdraw our troops under these conditions. Our presence was mandated once the Kurds began slaughtering hundreds of Turkish civilians. I know I don’t have to sell you on my decision, but now every time an American is killed, it’s my fault. I’ll accept the responsibility, but I need answers and I need plausible options and I need them quick.”
President Merrick stopped abruptly and it seemed to take Jackson by surprise, as if he expected the longwinded political statement that usually came from a White House conference call.
“Walt?”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. President.”
“Walt, how many KSF do we have in custody now?”
“As of thirty minutes ago we have nine, Sir.”
“Nine KSF members—how many do you suspect are directly or indirectly related to the bombings?
“All of them.”
“That’s good. What have we learned from them?”
The assemblage of agents knew the answer before it ever left Jackson’s mouth.
“Nothing, Sir.”
“Nothing?”
“No, Sir, they’d rather die first. As a matter of fact two of them have attempted suicide.”
“I see.” In the silence a deep breath could be heard.
Ken Morris stepped closer to the speakerphone. “Mr. President, this is Ken.”
“Yes, Ken,” the frustrated voice said.
“Sir, this is similar to stomping on roaches as they crawl across the floor. We can’t protect every citizen in the country. We have to find the source. That’s the only way we’ll put an end to it. The scheme is too elaborate not to have a leader dictating the details of the mission.”
“And you’re sure who that leader is?”
“Yes, Sir. It’s Kemel Kharrazi. We find him and we can end the terrorist acts.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t we found him yet?”
“Sir . . . uh, there are some leads, but—“
“Ken, we have satellites circling the Earth that could read the date on a dime sitting in the road between two parked cars. Are you telling me we can’t find the most infamous terrorist in the world, in our own backyard?”
Ken opened his mouth, but only to take a large breath.
The President exploded. “Gentlemen, I want Kemel Kharrazi’s picture on every television, every newspaper, every
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