Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

The analysts wore headsets of their own and sat in cubicles set up in the War Room, each one with his or her own assignment. Once their information became significant, they buzzed Jackson and updated him on any modifications.

Jackson strolled across the front of the room, a maestro conducting a symphony of data. Dutton caught up to Jackson, both of them with unbuttoned collars and loosened ties. Dutton scanned a printout of the latest KSF arrests while Jackson stared at the immense visual of the United States.

“According to our best estimates,” Dutton said, peering down at his information, “we’ve been able to capture sixty percent of their force.”

Jackson nodded. “That leaves three hundred or so still on the loose.”

“And the names that aren’t on this list include the top twenty soldiers in their arsenal. So we’ve gotten their pawns, but their upper echelon remains intact.”

Jackson pushed a button on his remote. “Janice, exactly how many KSF remain unaccounted for?”

He turned to Dutton, “Two hundred and ninety four to be precise.”

Dutton’s focus remained on the data sheet. “You know, Walt, this kid in Colorado was talking way too much to-” he looked up at Jackson and saw him holding up his finger, requesting silence while he listened intently to an analyst talking in his earpiece.

“Okay,” Jackson said, nodding, agreeing with the analyst who sat in front of a computer screen less than twenty feet away. “I understand.”

Jackson clicked a button on his control panel, then slid half of his headset down so he converse with his boss. “The Navy has five subs scouring the shoreline. The Army is scoping every lake, stream and pond within fifty miles of the White House.”

“This KSF guy could’ve been blowing smoke.”

“I think it’s the best juice we have to go on. He had no reason to fabricate a story like that. Especially when he believed the man he’s talking to was going to be dead in a few seconds. If he wanted the guy to leave this world with a dire outlook for the future, he could’ve said they were going to detonate a nuclear weapon and destroy the eastern seaboard. But no, he specifically said a missile would hit the White House from underwater. That’s too precise to be made up.”

A young analyst handed Jackson a sheet of paper. “The computer confirms our hypothesis.”

Jackson scanned the sheet, then examined the map with narrowed eyes. Dutton looked over his shoulder. “Makes sense,” he said.

Jackson took a swig of cold coffee. “I believe the info our friend ascertained in the restroom was genuine. I think Kharrazi probably is thousands of miles from here, and if you figure how much scrutiny the borders are receiving, well. . it’s only logical.”

Jackson placed his mug down. “Tolliver, Downing,” he barked.

A moment later, two disheveled men with droopy eyelids lumbered up to their boss.

“You guys look like crap,” Jackson said. He got a perfunctory shrug from Tolliver while Downing just stared back.

Looking past them, over their shoulders, Jackson said, “I want you to take Farnworth, Curtin and Chambers with you to Las Vegas.”

“Vegas? Where they kidnapped Nick’s brother?”

“That’s right. We suspect that’s where their headquarters is stationed. We’ll get the National Guard and local authorities to assist you.”

“Las Vegas is a big town, Walt. You want us to go door to door?”

Dutton stuck his nose in the circle. “You’re right,” he sneered. “Let’s just call it a day and grab some donuts.”

Jackson regarded his men with raised eyebrows, the Director of the FBI next to him with his hands on his hips. Power like that money couldn’t buy.

“Yeah, yeah, we got the message,” Tolliver responded wearily. Both men shuffled off like they were being sent to the gas chamber.

A light flashed on Jackson’s remote designating an incoming call. He pushed the appropriate button and said, “Jackson.”

“I just read the paper,” Samuel Fisk’s voice was somber.

Jackson looked at his watch. Was it almost 6 AM already? “You’re working early this morning, Mr. Secretary.”

“Actually, I’m working late. I took a break to read the Post and found an interesting story about a homicide in a nightclub down on Thames. Supposedly the victim was Kurdish. Anything I should know?”

“Nothing you should know, Sir.”

“Is this for my own good?”

“Nothing you should know, Sir,” Jackson repeated.

A pause. “I see. Well I hope this nothing afforded us some valuable information.”

“You’re an insightful man, Mr. Secretary.”

“Walt?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The President refuses to vacate the White House. We’re going to stash him down in the bunker. He’ll be safe there unless there’s reason to suspect this thing could be nuclear.”

“There is not a shred of evidence that suggests that. However, I would still do everything I could to get him out of there.”

A frustrated voice came back, “Shit, Walt, is the White House going to be ground zero tonight, or not?”

Jackson hesitated. If he waffled about his ability to prevent the White House bombing, he may as well hand in his resignation right then. “Not on my watch, Mr. Secretary.”

There was silence. When Fisk finally spoke, his voice seemed to contain a smile. “Exactly what I wanted to hear. How’d you know that?”

“Because it’s the truth,” Jackson said. “And I know you always want the truth.”

“Nick.”

Nick woke up startled. Matt stood in front of him, holding a Styrofoam cup with steam escaping from the lid. The waiting room was bright with sunlight and beginning to buzz with activity.

Nick wiped his mouth dry. He was slumped back in an uncomfortable position for how long? He looked at his watch. Almost 8 AM.

“There’s a woman who’d like to speak with you.” Matt said, slipping Nick’s cup of coffee into the beverage holder at the end of the armrest.

“How long have you been here?” Nick said, rubbing his eyes.

“A couple of hours. Julie’s been sleeping, so I told the nurse to let you snore for a while. But she’s up now and for some strange reason she wants to see your ugly mug.”

Nick massaged a cramp from his neck. “Where is she?”

“Room 406. She may not look too good, but she’s going to be fine."

Nick got to his feet and lagged a half-step behind Matt, following his lead. He opened the lid to coffee and took a sip. “What happened to Ford?”

Matt pushed the button in the middle of two shiny, stainless steel elevators. He looked at Nick and shook his head. “Nihad Tansu was waiting for him at your house. He got the jump on him.”

They stepped into the elevator with a couple of nurses who were carrying on their own conversation. Nick spoke softly. “Tansu was at my house?”

“We think it was a coincidence that Ford happened to show up to take her to the safe house. Probably saved her life.”

Nick shook his head. Matt kept speaking to him and he nodded at seemingly appropriate moments, but his mind was already two career changes ahead. He couldn’t possibly put his family at risk any longer. His obsession to rid every terrorist from the nation had gotten his brother kidnapped and his wife hospitalized. He was prepared to hand over his badge and gun to Walt Jackson and flee for the serenity of a simpler life. He looked forward to seeing Julie’s face when he finally told her of his decision.

“Anyway,” Matt continued, as they exited the elevator and Nick followed him down a busy corridor, “Walt’s turned the War Room into a computer geeks wet dream. They’ve got the NSA, CIA, and FBI’s mainframes all linked together. Every tech who can type is down there banging keyboards and scrambling for info on KSF members in the U.S."