The Trade of Queens by Charles Stross Page A

mainstream media J. Barrett Armstrong wasn’t so high up the totem pole, but in the grand scheme of the folks who signed Steve’s paychecks he was right at the top, Thunderbird-in-chief.
    Right now, J. Barrett Armstrong’s office was crowded with managers and senior editors, all of whom were getting a piece of the proprietor’s ear as he vented his frustration. “The fucking war’s over ,” he shouted, wadding up a printout from the machine in the corner and throwing it at the wall. “Who did Ali get the bomb from? There’s the fricking story!” A bank of monitors on a stand showed the story unfolding in repeated silent flashbacks. “How did they smuggle them in? Go on, get digging!”
    Nobody noticed Steve sneaking in until he tapped his boss, Riccardo Pirello, on the shoulder. Rick turned, distractedly: “What is it?”
    â€œIt’s not Iraq,” said Steve. He swallowed. “It’s narcoterrorists, and the nukes were stolen from our own inventory.”
    The boss was belting out orders to his mates and boatswains: “Bhaskar, I want an in-depth on the Iranian nuclear program, inside spread, you’ve got six pages—”
    Steve held up his dictaphone where Riccardo could see it. “Scoop, boss. Walked into my office an hour ago.”
    â€œA—what the fuck—” Riccardo grabbed his arm.
    Nobody else had noticed; all eyes were focussed on the Man, who was throwing a pocket tantrum in the direction of enemies both Middle Eastern and imaginary. “Let’s find a room,” Steve suggested. “I’ve got my desk line patched through to my mobile. He’s going to call back.”
    â€œWho—”
    â€œMy source.” Steve’s cheek twitched. “He told me this would happen. I thought he was crazy and kicked him out. He said he’d phone after it happened.”
    â€œJesus.” Riccardo stared at him for a moment. “Why you ?”
    â€œFriend of a friend. She went missing six months ago, investigating this, apparently.”
    â€œJesus. Okay, let’s get a cube and see what you’ve got. Then if it checks out I’ll try and figure out how we can break it to Skippy without getting ourselves shitcanned for making him look bad.”
    *   *   *
    The atmosphere in the situation room under Raven Rock was a toxic miasma of fury, loss, and anticipation: a sweaty, testosterone-breathing swamp of the will to triumph made immanent. From the moment the PINNACLE NUCFLASH alert came in, WARBUCKS hunched over one end of the cramped conference table, growling out a torrent of unanswerable questions, demanding action on HEAD CRASH and CLEANSWEEP and other more arcane Family Trade projects, issuing instructions to his staff, orders for the Emergency Preparedness and Response Directorate and other subagencies within the sprawling DHS empire. “We’re still trying to raise the EOB, sir,” said one particularly hapless staffer.
    â€œI don’t want to hear that word trying ,” snarled WARBUCKS. “I want results . Success or failure. Clear?”
    The TV screens were clear enough. Andrew James couldn’t help staring at the hypnotic rewind footage from time to time, the sunny morning view of downtown D.C., the flash and static-riddled flicker, the rolling, boiling cloud of chaotic darkness shot through with fire rising beyond the Capitol. The close-ups replaying every ten minutes of the Washington Monument blowdown, chunks of rock knocked clear out of the base of the spire as the Mach wave bounced off the waters of the reflecting pool, cherry trees catching fire in a thousand inglorious blazing points of light. Inarticulate anchormen and women, struggling with the enormity. Talking heads, eyes frozen in fear like deer in the headlights, struggling to pin the blame on Iraqi revenants, Iranian terrorists, everyone and anyone. Northwoods, he thought. He made it